A Long Slow Fade
by Tidwell
Summary: The power of suggestion has enabled House to cut back on his Vicodin use. But as his therapy sessions progress, why is his need for them stronger than it ever was for his pills? HouseMedium crossover. No knowledge of Medium necessary. Spooky stuff.
1. The Descent

**A/N: **This story is a House/Medium crossover but have no fear! No prior knowledge of the show "Medium" is necessary to enjoy the show. Elements of psychological horror, House/Wilson friendship and the supernatural all play a role in the tale. So sit back, hang on tight, and enjoy the ride.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Thanks, **NaiveEve**

**-1-**

**"**The Descent"

_Her pupils contract against a light that is pure, brilliant and clean; a light that slices through the darkness with a jeweler's precision. She takes one step back, cupping her hand over her aching eyes as her calf muscles tense. She wants to run. A dark heart lurks in this brilliance, a malevolence that makes her stomach churn. But flight is impossible; some force holds her, making her look, observe. Bear witness. _

_The light is a brotherhood of daggers and arrows and knives: a million spiked death tools carved from the sun, painstakingly connected to form this giant mass. It rises from...somewhere, making it nearly impossible to see...what she is supposed to see..._

_...which is the thing behind it, inside it. Some structure rises slowly, so slowly from beneath and between the brilliance. Slowly, purposefully. So as not to reveal too much too quickly. _

_"It wouldn't be fair to give away the game before we even set up the board, now would it?" the voice chides with an irritating air of superiority. It isn't right. The owner of that voice has the advantage before the rules are even handed out._

_But isn't that always how these things go?_

_She sighs, digs deep into the pocket of her robe and finds a pair of plastic sunglasses. Their lenses are tinted and their pink frames are dappled with tiny gold sparkles. She's seen them before, of course. They belong to her ten year old daughter, Bridget, who currently wears them to school, in the bath and to bed at night. Bridget wouldn't mind her mom borrowing them for a little while; she is an unselfish, good natured kid._

_With great care, the woman places the glasses over the bridge of her nose. They are kind of snug, not a perfect fit, of course. But they will do. _

_Her trepidation rises now that she doesn't have to squint, now that she can see. That fear intensifies, striking her with cold precision in the center of her chest, tickling her insides, making her stomach clench. Maybe she should go. The higher this thing rises, the stronger is her urge to cry out and flee. But she remains silent and still, finding it impossible to curb her curiosity. She is fascinated. It's almost as if she is...mesmerized. _

_Now she can see, finally! Yes. The structure is...a house. Its roof is blackened, in disrepair, the siding is peeling and rusting, rotting away. The light caresses it, possesses it, creating shivering, distended shadows against its damaged exterior. She draws closer (can't help herself). The house seems to breathe. The windows glow blue._

_They blink._

She gasps, clenches her pillow and jerks upright

The bedsprings complain as her husband flops over like a heavy sack. Smiling, drowsy, he pats her trembling hand. "Morning," he mumbles, his voice still rough with sleep. "Another day...another dream, eh, darlin'?"

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Today is one of those days when it is all about the leg--a day when the Vicodin serves only to mildly assuage the distress. It's like putting a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid on a trauma victim's wound. Stress, frustration, lack of sleep has done him in. House has _had_ it. That's it, he decides, not even glancing at the last file from his stack. It is only four-thirty. He is supposed to serve in the clinic until five but is skipping out early. War wound. Horrible day. Dead patient. All good excuses.

He grunts, leaning over the reception desk, making a five fingered 'gimme motion' at the prune faced nurse with the cold stare. He doesn't like her, she probably wishes he would make like a tree and leave and seems more than happy to throw the duty log at him. It lands on the desk with a _thwap!_

"Pen." He flaps the book at her. "Or, if you prefer, I can open a vein and sign my name in blood."

She twists her lips and sneers, which brings home the fact she is wearing indigo lipstick. He thinks there should be a law banning women from wearing indigo lipstick. It is a gross subversion of the human form. Someday he will emblazon this on a t-shirt. So let it be written, so let it be done...

Nurse Indigo Lips tosses a pen at him. He snags it from the air without a look, without a thanks. Then he ducks his head, stares at the log, his eyes roving over the familiar and not so familiar signatures. _Gillerman, _yeah, _Tyson, _no, _Pestrana, _who? He's been working here long enough to know these people but can't seem to visualize any of them. That's okay. They are about as important to him as an extra pinky finger might be. But one day they will need him and then, unfortunately, he will be forced to deal with their idiocy first hand.

Somewhere deep inside, past the pain, past the frustration of losing the kid, he wonders what it might be like to fly free. Just get on his bike and ride...anywhere. Losing himself in anonymity sounds as tasty as a Mars Bar. How great would it be: dying his hair blond, shaving, putting on a few pounds, going to work in a video/electronics store? He wouldn't have to deal with kids dying on him and the aftermath: grief stricken parents and three stacks of paperwork...

"Are you done with the pen, Doctor?"

He scribbles his name and the time and flings the pen so it rolls off the desk onto the floor.

"Oops," he says, enjoying how quickly her sour look turns septic.

This small but meaningful exchange puts him in an almost agreeable mood. He nearly makes it to the door before a slim hand drops on his shoulder.

"Hou-use."

He takes a deep breath, then speaks, his words rat-a-tatting like machine gun fire: "Already signed out for the day. Check the log. I am gone, gone, goodbye." He raises his eyes, noticing the flicker of the fluorescent light above the door. "Be an angel. Get maintenance on that, stat."

"House!" The hand squeezes his shoulder so hard, he feels tiny electric shockwaves zip down his right side.

"What?" With a violent shrug, he rids himself of the hand and turns, seething again.

Cuddy sets one hand on her hip and...just...glares. "_You_ have a patient."

"_I _signed out."

"Is that so?" She pushes closer and stands on tiptoes so they are nose to nose." I had a feeling this might come in handy," she thrusts a bottle of White Out into his hand. "Now you can make it all go away."

His lips tighten, eyes widening as he lets the black and white bottle fall from his fingers and clatter to the floor. Some spectral disciple of Buddy Rich has arrived. It climbs aboard the Torture Greg Express to pound a complex rhythm against his temples. "Get someone else," he grumps. "I'm gone."

"The guy is scared," she says, snaking around to block his way. "He's been waiting two hours to see you."

"Tell him my last patient died. That'll change his mind."

"You had no control over that," she lowers her voice to a hiss. "The kid had a brain aneurysm while your team was trying to get his heart started. There is nothing you could have done." Her look loses its hard edge. The old Cuddy compassion returns. "You can turn this day around. Make this guy feel better." She steps aside. "But if you have to go..."

House taps the cane against the door's metal framework. His free hand pushes the door open a crack. He stares at his sneakers, pensive, indecisive; he is almost out, almost free.

Finally...

"If I do this, no clinic duty for two weeks."

"One," she counters instantly.

He gazes out the plate glass, at the waning daylight. The late afternoon sun makes leaving that much more inviting. The way the leaves on the elm trees shiver says there is just a hint of a breeze. The air will have that good, fresh smell, so rare in this city. It's going to be an enjoyable ride home. But Cuddy is relentless. Boss lady will have her way.

He takes one step back, then another. The door hisses shut. The grass, trees and ribbon of road home are behind the glass now (gone, goodbye). Hell, they might as well be in a different country.

Grumbling, House glares at the rows of patients waiting for some doctor to hem and haw over their sorry asses. They are seated in folding chairs, a few nod off, some are reading, some look anxious or lost, all of them waiting for medical attention for...what? Hangnails, earwax buildup, paper cuts? House would bet that every one of these cretins has fallen victim to ridiculously boring ailments that could be tended to at home.

"A free clinic is not an excuse to waste a doctor's time," House yells, lurching into the center of the room. He is about to do three minute diagnosis on a kid with a tattooed neck, when Cuddy shoots over. She thrusts a file folder at him. House rubs his leg and grumbles before snatching it out of her hand.

His leg hurts, he's hungry.

He lost a patient today. He is...miserable.

"Room Four," Cuddy calls over her shoulder as she sashays away.

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The Eggman sits on the examination table, his fingers fidgeting with the tip of his tie. He _is _ovular and about twenty pounds overweight. His gut sags, hanging over his belt like a sack of gelatin. House immediately thinks, no, he _knows_, the guy is the epitome of pathetic.

"So..." House settles into his rolling chair and propels himself closer to the exam table. "What's wrong with you?"

"Aren't you supposed to tell me that?" Eggman looks lost. His plump cheeks burn scarlet and he seems about ready to weep. "I mean, you're supposed to be the best."

The chair squeals as House pushes himself to a standing position. He presses one hand on the exam table to steady himself. Leaning close, he notices the guy's eyes are brownish hazel and there is a mole beneath the loose skin of his chin. "Your file says your chest hurts"

"Yes. I...hurt."

"Why is that?"

"You're the doc-"

"Couldn't be too bad," House says.

"It burns." Eggman punches one pudgy fist against his breastbone. "It's bad."

"If it was that bad you'd be dead by now." His gaze skitters all over the guy. "You waited two hours to see me?"

Eggman emits a sad little chuckle.

House retrieves a stethoscope from his shirt pocket, listens to the guy's chest, then stops...and goes slack-jawed. "What...have we here?" He flicks a small white granule off Eggman's shirt. He finds another, presses it against his forefinger and brings it to his tongue for a taste.

"Well, well, well, "

"Well...what?" Eggman croaks.

"That's salt." House winces as he settles into his chair, hunching forward slightly to massage his thigh. "It's all over your shirt. You a drinking man?"

"I...sometimes."

"You go to Pancho Villa's downtown? Dollar Margaritas from one to three?"

"Well, yeah...today, in fact. I'm retired, you see-"

"You're retired and you're wearing a tie and dress pants?" He sneers. "Oh, I know. You wanted the chicks to think you were just taking a break from your oh, so hectic work schedule. Good one." House pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, reaching into his jacket pocket for his Vicodin. He flips off the cap, shakes three pills into his hand and tosses back his head to dry swallow. After a moment, he smiles and proclaims, "You're an idiot."

"What did you say?"

House returns the Vicodin to the safety of its shirt pocket lair. He snags the file folder from where it sits on a metal table next to a roll of gauze and a bottle of Peroxide, then allows himself a perfunctory scan of the top page. "Bill Faulkner," he says, glowering at the guy over the paper.

"That's me." The man brightens. He looks like Humpty Dumpty sitting on a wall.

"Any relation?" House asks, tossing the file back to its resting place.

"I take it you mean--?"

"Willie...the Faulkman, the Faulkmeister. You know..._As I Lay Dying...The Sound and The Fury..._" Off Faulkner's suddenly cold stare, House exhales sharply. He dips his hand into his jacket pocket to find his scrip pad and a pen. "Guess they don't teach that stuff in High School Equivalency classes..."

"Just hold on now, Doctor. You have no right to assume that just because..."

"You're going to tell me nobody's ever remarked to you about your name?"

"They have...I guess." Bill Faulkner says. "I just have more important things to concern myself with."

"Like what?"

"I had a career." Eggman puffs out his chest. "I made my living as a healthcare professional."

"Aha! A bedpan flusher." Tossing him a wink, House coos, "They're in very high demand. But you knew that."

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Faulkner's tone is like a grey, low lying cloud: thick and threatening.

"Okay, so now you're going to tell me how deeply I've insulted you..." House rests the pad on his knee and drums his fingers against the chair's metal armrest.

"I am _Doctor _Bill Faulkner. Before I retired I was a respected psycho-therapist.

"Quack. Quack. Quack." House tilts his head this way and that as he scribbles on the pad. He rips off the page and hands it to Faulkner.

Faulkner reads, "Prilosec...?"

"Very good. You can read. You may be a quack but at least you're literate."

"Just what are you getting at?"

"I'm saying that number one--you have a nasty case of heartburn. Prilosec will take care of the problem."

"So...it's not my heart?" Faulkner slumps forward, his mouth going slack with relief.

"Not this time." House sniggers, he is beginning to enjoy this. "The Margaritas at Pancho's did a number on you. The shit that passes for Tequila in that hole is the crappiest swill in Princeton. Only idiots and alcoholics drink there...or retirees going through their obligatory mid-life crisis. Are you one or all of the above Willie?" He raises a brow, keeping that wicked little grin going.

"You're a smug bastard, aren't you, Doctor?"

House claps his hands. "That's why they pay me the big bucks. How's that pain?"

Faulkner winces and taps his chest with his fist. "Awful..."

"You learn the hard way. After you down a few Pancho's Honchos you feel like your guts are going to burn right through your chest." House rocks back in his chair. "Am I right, Faulky baby?"

"I...guess."

House tucks the scrip pad back into his pocket as his fingers knead his right thigh. "Number two, psychiatrists and psycho-therapists are charlatans. They make a career out of preying on weak minded morons willing to part with their cash for the chance to spill their guts to a stranger."

"Now, you see," Faulkner lifts a finger, "that's where you're wrong."

"I'm _not_ wrong."

"Doctor House," Faulkner begins, "as you may or may not know, the mind needs constant maintenance, just like any vital organ." Faulkner's eyes brighten like klieg lights. This detour into his little neck of the winds has obviously rocked his world "Your emotional state affects your overall health and vice-versa."

"Thank you, Andrew Weill. Hey, let's break out the Enya discs. Or how about George Winston's "Autumn"? There's a dandy New Age snoozer."

"As a physician, a man of science, surely you have some notion of how the mind works in tandem with the body. Take your leg, for example."

House's smirk fades. His palm aches. He hadn't realized how much pressure he'd been placing on his ruined thigh.

"What happened to your leg, Dr. House?" Faulkner's smile is a practiced mix of gentility and compassion. Confidence shines through that silly Eggman veneer.

_Infarction. Muscle Death. _The words nearly tumble out. But House stifles them and puts them away for another day, "Not your business."

"You took your meds but they don't seem to be helping."

Something isn't kosher. Eggman is suddenly strutting his stuff. He's sharp; he's deductive. House has an odd, niggling feeling that someone is playing a supreme 'let's 'get' House gag. At any moment a contingent of clinic doctors and nurses will come barreling through that door, guffawing and slapping each other on the back. Now House is the stooge, the pathetic loser.

"Maybe you need something more than your meds to ease that pain, Doctor." When Faulkner smiles, he looks like the moon. The man in the moon. "You helped me. Why not let me return the favor?"

"I don't need your help." House's voice sounds flat and weak. His weariness is like a sinuous snake, weaving through his vitals, through his mind, making his thoughts slow and logy. He thinks how much he wants to be on that ribbon of road, his Honda beneath him, taking him home.

"Over the course of my career, I've helped many people overcome chronic pain," Faulkner eyes House's leg. "using little more than the power of the mind. Doesn't that pique your curiosity, just a little?

The cane is sturdy and true within House's trembling grip. He winces, pushing himself up. The pain...ah, yeah. It's like a living thing with tendrils that grip his thigh like a vise and...squeeze. He loses his breath for a moment, black dots float and dance across his vision before receding. "I am curious...as to when you're going to take the hint that this meeting is over," he says while hobbling toward the door. "But, hell, stay if you want. The nurse will toss you out at her leisure."

"Dr. House," Faulkner calls.

House hesitates for less than a moment before pulling open the door.

"I'll leave you my card," Faulkner says with a calm air of superiority. "I still do this sort of work on a per diem basis. Call me anytime."

How odd. Faulkner's voice closes in like heavy fog, filling every inch of House's grey matter. He makes a valiant, yet futile attempt to shake free of it as he enters the bustling clinic, as the exam room door swings shut.

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He roams through his rooms, attempting to will the pain away.

_You're a man of science...the mind works in tandem with the body...maybe you need something more than your meds..._

Eggman, Faulkner, the supercilious know-it-all is in House's head. Somehow the guy got to him. Faulkner took a chance, put a quarter in that jukebox in House's psyche and played all the right tunes, making House wonder, causing him to consider...

...mind over matter, the power of suggestion. House sits at the piano, immerses himself in a few bars of some somber improvised twaddle. But it doesn't ease the pain, doesn't stop the Eggman's words from pushing through. With a soft grunt, House rises and moves to the sofa. He switches on the TV and attempts to lose himself in some Eastwood spaghetti western but it doesn't work. He's restless; he hurts. A tumbler of scotch and two Vicodin later, he finds that although the pain persists, it is weaker now, but still...

He calls Wilson. Does he want to down a few? Yeah, it's a weeknight, yeah, it's late.

But still...

It is nine-o-clock on a Wednesday night but _Richter's_ is hopping. It's jazz night. Over in the corner, a trio is playing a dark, smoky version of Coltrane's _A Love Supreme._ It suits House's mood just fine.

"So what's up?" Wilson shifts on his barstool and sips Corona from the bottle.

House doesn't respond right away. He taps his glass against the bar in time to the music, then pours himself another two fingers of scotch. "What do you think of shrinks?" he asks cautiously.

Wilson tosses him a typically cynical grin. "Why do you ask?"

"Does it matter?" House tilts the glass one way, then the other, watching the light reflect off the deep amber liquid.

"Probably."

House gives Wilson a measured look. "We don't really have to play this game, do we?"

After taking another sip, Wilson taps one finger against the bottle. "I think the good ones serve a purpose. They help...certain people."

"Ever go to one?" House's gaze flicks back to the pretty amber in his glass.

"No. But Bonnie did."

"Mmm?" House gulps down his drink, reaches for more. The room is in soft focus now. Pain sits tied up in the corner behind the band. Good. Serves it right. _Fucker_.

"She needed help figuring out why she was depressed all the time." Wilson shrugs. "He helped her come to the conclusion that it was mainly because she was married to me."

"Was it?"

"Of course. But I could have told her that from the start and saved us both a few grand." He laughs, House doesn't. He drains the rest of his drink instead.

"You thinking of going to an analyst?" Wilson's eyes widen in surprise.

"I'm thinking of trying to get rid of this pain."

"By going to a shrink?"

"I don't know." House rubs his palms against his face.

"You had a bad day, House," Wilson tells him. "You'll feel better tomorrow."

"Yeah." House eases off the stool and grasps the edge of the bar to stop the room from spinning. "You're right. I will."

Wilson sighs, slaps down a twenty and accompanies House to the door.

"Y' know, that was the first smart thing you said all day." House tells him, punctuating each word by shaking a finger under Wilson's nose.

"Gee, thanks."

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It is after eleven. House sits on the edge of his bed, holding a business card in one hand, the phone in the other.

_Call anytime..._

The little black numbers do a happy jig against the card's white background. They know he's going to use them just as House knows his leg pain is not going to give him any time off for good behavior this evening. He will pace, then doze off, then dream something horrendously fantastical, then pace some more, then sleep, dream, wake...

He punches the first three digits into the phone, hesitates, scrubs a hand through his hair, thinks about taking a long, hot bath. But...too late. He has punched the final four digits into the keypad, his fingers doing the deed seemingly of their own volition.

Faulkner picks up on the second ring, giving House a friendly, knowing greeting. He sounds pleased but not surprised. House has the vague notion Dr. F.'s been sitting by that phone all night...like an anxious lover...

...just waiting for him to call.


	2. Now It Begins, Now It Starts

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's decided to join me for this ride. It could be a bumpy one.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Thanks to **NaiveEve.**

**-2-**

**"Now It Begins, Now It Starts"**

Allison Dubois' dreams rarely behave. Like petulant children, they remain by her side, impatiently tugging her sleeve, demanding her attention. And on occasion, a few feisty spirits might join in the fun, when they have something important to say.

But those dreams...

They put themselves above everything, and what might be important to Allison is of no concern of theirs. She could be fixing breakfast for the kids or in a meeting with her boss, but if those dreams have the notion, they will snatch her away. And when they release her, she is wrung out like a damp dishrag, needing sustenance and a nap. She hates when that happens. It's embarrassing.

Yes, those dreams and spectral entities have the advantage, and the unfortunate truth is...she needs them. Without them Allison can't do what Allison is supposed to do.

In a perfect world, her dreams would be like everybody's dreams, clinging to her for those first few moments after waking, then gradually breaking apart piece by piece, like the squares of economy size chocolate bar. But the world is less than ideal. The sharp shards of light and that humanoid ramshackle house will haunt her through this long, busy day.

Obviously there's some deep meaning in all of this.

She understands that, yes, the dreams and visitations from the dead are part of her gift. And her gift is 'the sight' (as her grandmother used to call this psychic energy--the part of Nana's genetic wiring that somehow got passed down to her granddaughter). The gift is strong, true and steadfast, enabling Allison to _see _things that haven't yet happened. Sometimes she feels a certain pride in being able to foresee a tragedy and possibly prevent it. But this is one of those times she would just as soon return the gift, get a credit and buy a new toaster or something.

She fiddles with the radio dial, traversing the airwaves as she drives. Straining her ears, she searches for news of the cache in her dream: dangerous, nasty weaponry discovered perhaps in the aftermath of a house fire. But this is probably not what she should be looking for at all. Besides being petulant, her dreams are often crafty and wickedly sneaky, offering her clues that are obtuse and oblique. At times it's frustrating, sifting through the clouds for clues. The urge to give it all up, put a shingle on her door and tell fortunes for a living has occurred to her. But no. It can take time and a whole lot of guesswork to figure out this dreamspeak. But most of the time her patience serves her well and she is able to do what she is supposed to do.

How much time does she have with this one? How much leeway? The skin of her arms prickle at the memory of placid malevolence, the sense that whoever is behind... _this_ has time on their side.

She turns right at the corner, heading toward the tan and white twenty story building: the offices of Phoenix District Attorney, where Allison works as a consultant. Not many in her office are aware of her gift. To be labeled a quack, a fraud or a loon would only hamper her efforts. So she keeps the 'sight' under wraps as does District Attorney. Devalos. At first he was a skeptic. But as time went on and the validity of Allison's visions proved her worth, he reluctantly became a believer.

Over the next two weeks she will work to tie up any loose ends in her office. Vacation time is just around the bend. Allison's eldest daughter, Ariel, has taken second place in the National Science Fair competition and, to claim her prize, must travel to New York for the awards ceremony. At first, only Allison was to accompany her, a plan which sounded exciting at the outset: mom and daughter out on the town, shopping, taking in a few shows, but when Joe suggested they make the trip into a family vacation, Allison agreed. Family time is always at a premium with both her and Joe working so many hours. A week away from home in a vibrant town like New York seemed like a fine respite from work, school and the everyday grind.

As she navigates the car into the parking garage, she smiles as her mind's eye brings her images of skyscrapers, flashing neon, giant billboards, bustling, crowded streets...

..._lights, sharp, malevolent, pulling her in, making her see. Blue windows, staring, intense, like eyes behind a prison wall, peering over, peering out...in... _

_...pain. Such exquisite pain..._

_...a cry for help...a tormented plea..._

God_damn_!

She cuts the wheel, stomps the brake. Her tires shriek as she narrowly avoids careening into a parked Lincoln.

Somehow she manages to find a parking spot, then...just...sits, twisting her sweating, trembling hands in her lap. Her chest is heaving too hard, her throat burns from the force of her exhalations. Hyperventilating is not on her to do list today, so she wills herself to cool it down...to calm herself. She forces herself to think pleasant thoughts: flowers, trees, little puppies rolling in the dirt. _There, that's better_. She leans her forehead against the steering wheel and exhales slowly, willing her entire body to unwind and relax.

Allison sighs.

There is something to be said for the power of suggestion.

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Bill Faulkner is legit, which makes House happy as a camper can be. After checking and re-checking his online sources, House is convinced the guy's credentials are valid. _Yes. We have a winner! _It seems Faulkner has been published in an impressive number of medical journals including _Behavior Modification, Journal of Psychiatric Research, Behavioral Sleep Medicine, Behavioral Brain Sciences _(is there a pattern here?). He was on staff at the Winston-Halboro psychiatric hospital in Ohio for ten years before opening a private practice in the '70's. Twenty years later he retired and headed east. But, as he told House on the phone, he still likes to 'keep his feet wet', occasionally taking on patients after they've exhausted every other type of pain management treatment.

According to Faulkner's online bio, ninety percent of the patients he's treated have come away either completely pain free or substantially improved. Faulkner, it seems, is that good.

Unable to restrain his enthusiasm, House pounds his fist against his desk and lets loose with a soft but audible "_yessss_!"

_Hey, pssst, big shot...why was Faulkner so worried when he entered the clinic? He is a psychotherapist, a doctor, after all. Wouldn't he have suspected heartburn over heart ailment? He could have gotten something over the counter for such a piddling problem-_

House grabs the thought by the scruff of its neck, lassos it over his head and tosses it far off into the distance.

Immersed in denial, he doesn't hear his office door open until it's too late.

"Hey."

_Wilson._

House flinches, instantly moving his fingers over his keyboard to minimize his browser window. The screen flips back to the "Cartoons On the Internet" homepage.

"What's up with your team?" Wilson seats himself on the edge of House's desk.

House swivels his chair to face Wilson. Drumming his fingers on his blotter, he throws the oncologist a terse grin. "What?"

"They're running around like chickens on speed."

"They're working."

"They're frantic, like they're on some insane scavenger hunt."

"I don't need them hanging around me when there's no case. They're boring."

The flat of Wilson's palm presses against the desk as he leans toward House. "Foreman tells me you've assigned them each the task of solving an unsolved medical mystery...

"Yeah." House smirks. "Cool, huh?"

"...you saw on The Health Channel last week."

"Hey, _I_ solved it." He taps two fingers against his temple. "Up here."

"Your only rule is they can't confer or work as a team...at all." Wilson throws him a look of strained tolerance.

"Come on." House snickers. "It's funny."

"The prize for the first viable solution is a five hundred dollar bonus?"

"Way cool, huh?"

Wilson folds his arms and throws his friend a hard look. "Has Cuddy approved this?"

"No worries." House taps his pen against a yellow legal pad. "She's my love slave. As long as Mr. Johnson's in working order, anything I do is okay by her."

Scoffing, Wilson shakes his head. "What planet are you on?"

Puffing out his cheeks, House draws a stick figure man with an arrow through his center.

"Nice visual."

"It's my art." He adds a top hat, embellishing it with another, larger arrow through its center.

"It's good to see you're feeling better," Wilson says.

House grunts, throws his pen down, suddenly tired of the banter. He wishes Wilson would just slide off the desk and leave him alone. With a quick flip of his wrist, he checks his watch, impatient for the day to be over.

"Going somewhere?"

"No. But you are, aren't you?" Arching a brow, House quirks his chin at the door.

"As a matter of fact," Wilson reaches behind his pocket protector and retrieves an envelope. He slaps it on the desk and, using two fingers, slides it toward House.

"What's this?"

"Something for which you're going to love me forever." Wilson beams. "Or at least until the end of the night."

As House removes the contents of the envelope, his eyes grow wide with disbelief. "Knicks playoff tickets for tonight," he breathes. "Courtside."

"Grateful mother of one of my patient's dropped them off to me today. She works for the organization..."

House ogles the tickets, touches their corners, caresses each letter with one finger, then sighs. "Can't go."

"Of course you can go."

"Nope." House tucks the tickets back into the envelope and thrusts it into Wilson's hand. "Leg hurts. Bad."

"It's not that bad." Wilson narrows his eyes, gesturing at House with the envelope. "What are you doing that's so much more important than enjoying a night of prime basketball with your friend?"

"I'm busy." House stares at his stick-figure man, considering where else to add an arrow.

"Are...you doing what I think you're doing?

"What?" House snaps, jerking his head up.

"You're going to see a shrink, aren't you?" Wilson fixes him with a knowing glare.

"I'm not."

"You think he's going to magically make your pain go away."

House is silent as he lifts his pen. With two bold strokes, he creates one final lethal blow, zapping stick guy right through the face.

"Stick to your Vicodin, House. At least there you know what you're getting."

"You'd better get going." House draws a grave marker beside his creation. "Ask Tanya from Pediatrics to be your date or better yet go solo." He embellishes the marker with the name "Sticky" across its front. "Lots of rich, horny chicks sitting courtside." His brow furrows. "Who knows? You may just get lucky."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Faulkner keeps an office in _The Sedgewick Arms,_ an apartment building located in Trenton's chi-chi historic district.It is a sturdy ten story structure--all grey stone and steel, built back in the '40's as a haven for the elite in which to live and conduct their business. Back then a doorman probably stood where House is now. Back then the doorman would have opened the door with a cultured smile, murmured a "good afternoon, sir", possibly even tipped his hat.

House gets a warm feeling to think that the doorman is probably worm food by now.

He pulls the handle of the inner security door and finds it locked. Emitting an impatient grunt, House searches the rows of buttons beside it, the tip of his cane tapping a restless tattoo against the floor. He finds the small rectangular plate marked "W. Faulkner" and jabs his thumb twice against the button beneath it.. In a moment the intercom squawks its question. House barks at it, which causes it to buzz its response, his cue to...

...approach. He pushes open the door, then takes his first halting steps into Faulkner's domain.


	3. Egyptian Sands

**A/N: **Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **Hat's off to **NaiveEve **and **Betz88 **for their suggestions, encouragement and support.

**-3-**

**"Egyptian Sands"**

On first impression, Faulkner's apartment reminds House of his own place. Books and knick-knacks line mahogany shelves. An entertainment center complete with a flat screen TV and DVR stands at the ready against one wall of the living room. Across from it sits a leather sectional sofa. The carpet is a plush reddish-brown, the color of autumn leaves. The windows are curtained, walls are cream colored. Lamps sit on end tables, their soft emanations warming the room. The room has a masculine, lived in feel to it. It seems...comfortable.

"This is your office?" House asks.

Faulkner chuckles low and deep; his eyes twinkle his amusement. "That _would_ be different, wouldn't it? But no, I've turned the master bedroom into my actual office space." He pauses to glance around the room. "I own a home in Fort Lee, but I do spend a good deal of time in Trenton, which is why I've filled this place with creature comforts. I have family here and most of my clients are from the general area."

The therapist presents a different picture from the slovenly, anxious character House met in the clinic. That smidgen of confidence House gleaned from him earlier was now much more in evidence, strutting its stuff, out and about in full regalia. Faulkner stands with shoulders back, immaculately clad in a crisp tan shirt, black tie and chocolate brown trousers. The scent of his cologne is evident but not pervasive. He seems nowhere near as overweight as House had originally thought. He is the picture of affluence: a man of polish, culture and success.

_Not a man who would take his business to the free clinic of a teaching hospital._

"Why did you come see me today?" The question leaves House's lips before he can squelch it.

"What do you mean?"

House sighs. He didn't want to broach this ridiculous concern but his mouth had other plans. "I mean, why did you really come see me? You obviously have the means to keep a personal medico at your beckon call."

"You _are_ the best. Why shouldn't I have gone to you?" Faulkner sets his hands on his hips and cocks his head. "Okay, you want the absolute truth?"

"No, I like lies. That's why my world is filled with them."

Faulkner scoffs, paces, clasping his hands behind his back. "I was heading back here after throwing down a few too many at Pancho Villa's-shouldn't have been driving, but that's another story. Well, I started feeling sick, not just stomach queasy, really ill. I was about two blocks from the teaching hospital and figured, let me get checked out right away."

"How did you find me?" House asks.

"I recognized your name when I saw it on the roster. Since your reputation is of some renown and quite impressive, I decided you were the man I needed to see." Faulkner's smile is wide and warm. " After I filled out the forms, I asked if you might be at the clinic that day and...you were."

"So you waited for me."

"I did."

Their eyes lock as House continues. "When you're sick you want to feel better. Right away. You don't wait for some _wunderkind_ you read about in the journals-"

"Look, I understand your trepidation." Giving a weak shrug, Faulkner runs one hand over his smooth pate. "I wouldn't be much of a shrink if I didn't. But I sense... you feel like somehow this is all too convenient, like you've been set up."

House lifts one brow, taken aback, his list of accusations suddenly abandoning him. The back of his neck prickles cold.

"But really, the simple fact is, I was drunk, scared and I didn't want just any fool emergency room doctor looking at me. I know how harried they get. Sometimes their attention to detail goes right out the window." Leaning forward slightly, he gives a quick nod for emphasis. "I wanted the best. And I got him. Now," his hands open like a flower, palms up, like he is offering a gift. "I'd like to repay the favor."

"Oookay."

Faulkner's expression is too smug, too assured, like the good doc's got the whole world by the balls.

_Crap factor on orange alert here..._

"You know, I didn't think you were going to show." Faulkner's grin broadens, almost as if he has read House's mind. He gives House the once over and instantly House wishes he'd changed his clothes, freshened up before making the trip here.

_That's not like you, old man. You don't really care what he thinks. Do you?_

"You have good credentials," House says quickly. "You've been published. You have satisfied customers. I thought..." He averts his eyes and rubs his thumb over the smooth head of his cane. "...I thought you might be able to help me."

"That I might be able to do." Faulkner chuckles again. "Come, Doctor, we can talk more in my office."

House follows him down a long corridor off the living room. Photos line the walls on either side. The majority of images are in black and white: ancient, sepia toned, a few old guys in straw boaters and a gaggle of ladies in crinoline. Faulkner's family members? Sure. House can't help regale himself with the fact they've probably all gone the way of the doorman. Worm food.

More interesting is what is inside the glass cabinet against the wall just around the corner. Pewter figurines congregate on these shelves: wizards, castles, dragons, knights in armor, elves in hooded robes, witches and winsome princesses. Each piece plays a role in its own dramatic adventure: warriors battle warriors, magicians wield scepters, casting spells over gargantuan fire-eyed serpents, maidens stay out of harm's way, languishing high up behind the stone walls of jeweled towers.

Very cool.

But the most intriguing object, the one that holds House's attention in its viselike grip, is the ruby encrusted scepter. A shelf has been dedicated to this extraordinary piece, which has been set in the heart of the drama and romance.

Its scarlet jewels reflect the amber backlight of the case, and House suddenly finds it impossible to look away. Like a youngster wistfully window shopping at Christmastime, he presses his nose against the glass and just...stares...

...narrowing his eyes, studying the countless ways the light caresses the beveled edges of the each individual gem.

"Pretty special, eh?"

"Uh..."

"Ah, yes...you like the glitter, the shine..."

"Can I see it?" House taps a knuckle slowly against the glass.

"Another time." Faulkner pats House gently on the shoulder then motions him to follow. "Right now, we have work to do."

They move further into the apartment. Here is the expansive kitchen, a cozy looking den with well stocked bookshelves and a fireplace. Here's a bathroom, and a modest sized bedroom with a queen-size bed and dresser. Faulkner treads purposefully on. This is not a grand tour; Faulkner offers no chit chat about the pleasures of apartment house living. The man is now all business and these rooms are bypassed like they are in the way, as if they are merely the means to that final destination. They don't matter. It appears there is only one room that does.

House stands behind Faulkner in front of a polished oak door. And the way Faulkner is flipping his keys over and over on his ring says this door is locked up good and tight.

_Ist dieses verboten?_

"You're here by yourself," House points out, scrutinizing the two brass locks embedded into the wood. One lock is eye level, the other is just above the knob. "Two locks. A little overly cautious, I'd say."

"People's lives are behind this door, Doctor." Faulkner throws him a stony look as he thrusts a key into the top lock. "Why should I be careless with what has been entrusted to me? Just because certain healthcare professionals don't care about what is important to their patients, doesn't mean I have to join their little coven." He pushes the door open, his face set in a scowl. "It's a cold world out there, Doctor."

House rubs his thigh as he stands at the threshold. A long desk faces him from the opposite wall. On the desk is a vase, a pen cup, and a PC. The vase holds a bunch of yellow flowers. Framed watercolors hang on the walls, serene scenes of pristine beauty: sunlight, clouds, waterfalls, country homes and seascapes A tan sofa takes up the left side of the room.

At Faulkner's gentle prodding, House steps inside. Over to the right, he sees a blue recliner. The chair is near one of two windows in the room (the other is by the desk). The blinds are half drawn letting in weak shafts of sunlight that pool together on the beige carpet. The standing lamp by the sofa provides the only other illumination in the room. It is cool in here, much cooler than the other rooms, but not unpleasantly so.

A person could lose track of time in a room like this...

A soft grey shadow has formed where the pool of sunlight once was, solid evidence that the day is nearly done. Soon darkness will be closing in.

"Please, have a seat," Faulkner stands just inside the entrance; he still hasn't found his smile.

House hesitates, the idea that perhaps this guy is not what he seems takes hold for an instant. But his old pal Right-thigh leg distracts him with an emphatic twinge and sends him lurching toward the sofa.

The door clicks shut.

"I prefer you use this chair, Doctor." The corners of Faulkner's lips quirk up as he heads toward the recliner. One hand drifts over its sides, its thickly cushioned seat. He's like a game show host touting the most wonderfully irresistible prize of the day. "You can elevate that leg here. I promise you'll be a lot more comfortable."

"It's okay." House gazes longingly at the sofa. Something about that blue chair makes his insides go cold. "The sofa's good."

"Please. Just for today, relax. Put yourself in my hands." Faulkner digs deep and finally excavates a warm smile. "Please."

Touching the tip of his cane to the toe of his sneaker, House presses his lips together and focuses on the plush nap of the carpet.

"Doctor?"

"I've wasted your time," House raises his head. "I'm leaving now."

A cloud passes over that Man In the Moon face. Faulkner licks his lips, folds his arms. "You're not wasting my time."

"Doesn't matter if you think so or not." House swerves around and heads for the door.

"It's curious as to why you would have such a concern." Faulkner's voice is so smooth you could skate on it. "I've done nothing to make you feel that way."

"I just do...feel that way." A strange heat rides up House's neck, burning his ears, his cheeks. "And I don't need an inquisition from you." He throws an impatient gesture at the door, his breath hitching in his chest. "Unlock it."

Faulkner's eyes widen. "Now why would you think it would be locked?"

House stares boldly at the exit, like it is an unworthy adversary. "It clicked when it closed."

"Hmm, yes, now that's a curious thing." Faulkner touches a finger to his chin and nods. "Sometimes doors do click when they close. It doesn't always mean you're locked in. This isn't some B-movie where the evil doctor traps his hapless patient in a spiderweb of horrors." He snakes around the chair, his expression open and relaxed as he approaches House.

_He's right, you know..._

House tosses Faulkner a sheepish look, then takes a step toward the door.

"You're free to go, if you want."

"I want." He reaches for the knob. It is cool against his palm and twists easily when he tries it. He steps into the corridor, eager to leave but can't seem to put one foot in front of the other.

"You asked for my help." Faulkner is by his shoulder. "Now you're leaving."

House presses a closed fist against the wall and hangs his head.

"Please reconsider," The voice seems disembodied. Floating round the corridor, ricocheting off the walls. "I mean, you are only going to benefit from my expertise. You're in pain. Right now. I see it in how your lips turn down and your eyes shift around the room like you're searching for solace. It's in the way you stand, Doctor. It's in every little thing you do. Pain has taken over your life..."

"Now tell me something I don't know," House grumbles.

"I can help you _feel_ better..."

House reaches into his pocket for his meds. He grasps the vial, shakes it absently. His thumb braces the underside of the cap to pop it...

"...without the pills."

"The pills are not the problem. The pain..." He is face to face with Faulkner now. He can see his reflection in the man's eyes as he slowly, _reluctantly_, tucks the pills back into his jeans pocket.

"I'm going to make you a deal" Faulkner touches his arm. "If after one session you're not getting a substantial break from that pain, just...don't come back." Faulkner's smile is contagious and House can't help but hesitantly return the grin and throw in a curt nod of assent. What could it hurt? Really. One failed session, then he's gone, gone, goodbye.

He doesn't realize he is back in the room until the door clicks shut behind him. There is an air of finality in that sound...

For some reason, delaying the inevitable seems like a good idea, so he gazes around the room, taking it all in again, filing everything away: the yellow flowers, the watercolor paintings, the fading grey shadow on the carpet...

The blue chair.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From where House is settled in the recliner, the room looks...different. It seems larger, more imposing. His gaze drifts along the ceiling, then down, down to the standing lamp _wa-ay _over the corner, then to the desk, the vase. The yellow flowers seem miles away. The last vestiges of light limn the edges of the blinds. He taps one finger against the velveteen fabric of the chair's arm. Certainly he is more comfortable than he would care to admit. His legs extend out before him on the cushioned footrest; he half sits/half lies, his gaze taking one more sweep around the room before being claimed by the rise and fall of his chest.

Faulkner has brought in a high backed chair and now sits at House's side. His fingers are relaxed, entwined loosely in his lap, but there is a certain tension in his body as he shifts restlessly on the edge of his seat. It's like he is priming himself for a long awaited new experience.

"Now what?" House blinks up at the ceiling.

"The first thing we need to do is establish a rapport, a communication, a _trust._"

House twists his lips and scoffs.

"You need to trust me if any of this is to work."

House turns to face him. "I trust exactly one person in my life," he says slowly. "And sometimes, not even him."

"I see." Faulkner taps his chin and shifts forward slightly. "The thing is...you know lots about me and I know next to nothing about you."

"You know enough," House says, his voice cold as an ice floe.

"Not enough to help you."

"Good. Then I can go."

"Ple-ease." Faulkner draws the entreaty out. "Work with me."

"What?" House snaps, then heaves a disgruntled sigh.

"Childhood." Faulkner juts out his lower lip and shrugs. "Good, bad? Happy, sad?"

"Military brat. Traveled all the time. Saw the world. Read a lot, was a geeky kid. Didn't make any real friends until I was a teenager. By then we'd settled in Ohio..."

"Ah, what about your parents."

"What about them?"

"Love, hate?"

House folds his arms over his chest. "What does this have to do with the pain?"

A beat. "It has everything to do with it."

"No." House's eyes narrow into slits as his fist pounds the armrest. "It doesn't."

"I think-"

"My pain stems from an infarction caused by a clot that resulted in muscle death." House feels the blood rise behind his eyes. "It doesn't stem from any of the childhood trauma bullshit you shrinks are so fond of shoveling out. It is a physical malady, one that's not going to go away because you say so, _Doctor_ Faulkner.

"Okay, okay." Faulkner puts up both hands. "Fair enough. Let's shift gears then. Would you like to learn something about the course of therapy I have planned for you?"

"That would help."

"Good." Faulkner lifts a finger. "Now, as a physician you know all about how the brain produces endorphins as pain blockers. If we can work with those endorphins, and alter the brain's normal patterns, we can regulate and manage your pain and greatly cut back on your Vicodin use."

"And _that's_ your great plan?" House shakes his head in disbelief. "How do you plan to put _that_ pipedream into effect?"

"There is something to be said for the power of suggestion to help produce the desired results."

Kneading his thigh, House scowls. "It won't work on me."

Faulkner's smile is one a beleaguered adult would offer a small child. "Why would you say that?

"Because I'm too much of a willful bastard."

"You'd be surprised how suggestible you are."

"Ah, but that's where you lose the game." House cocks his head and winks. "Go on, Faulky, turn in your light pen to Trebek."

"But, Doctor, I got you here, didn't I?" Faulkner steeples his fingers under his chin. "Think about it. You're settled comfortably in this chair, the one you were trying so hard to avoid."

House opens his mouth, straining to come up with a response to refute this. But it's impossible. He is so busted. He purses his lips and continues to massage his thigh.

"Let me show you something." Faulkner extends one arm. "Hold one arm out, like this."

House throws him a sly grin. "You didn't say 'Simon Says..."

"Humor me."

After rubbing his thumb against his fingertips, House fixes Faulkner with a wary look, then reluctantly extends one arm straight out before him.

"Very good, Doctor. Now, I want you to bring forth all your creative energies to imagine your arm is an iron bar..."

For the first time that day, House bursts out laughing. It feels good. He thinks this might be his chance to show this guy up. "Iron bar. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got it."

"But this is a special piece of iron."

"Yeah?"

"It is the hardest most durable metal in the world."

House continues laughing as his fist gradually tightens; he can sense the veins in his upper arm straining like thick ropes under the skin.

"It is so incredibly heavy, isn't it? So heavy you find it impossible to move it." Faulkner's voice is an excited whisper. "It's almost as if...it's no longer a part of you..."

House's arm goes numb. His laughter hangs in the air, then dies.

"Try..."

Slack-jawed, House fixes Faulkner with a helpless look.

"I said...try, Doctor."

He doesn't want to say the words, to admit defeat. Frightened yet undeniably amazed, he stares with wide eyed wonder at the appendage that is thrust out before him. Silently he wills it to move, to shake, to shudder...to drop into his lap, heavily, as heavy as the iron bar it has become. Now he is way past being frightened; it's all aboard for Terror Town. He swallows thickly. "Make it stop," House's voice is a tremulous croak.

The Man In The Moon grins at this triumphant turn, this _gotcha _moment.

"Make. It. _Stop_."

Resting his fingers lightly on House's arm, Faulkner fixes him with a look of comfort, of compassion, of an _understanding_ so deep, House's terror dissipates like cotton candy on a child's tongue.

"It's been a long day," Faulkner says.

House thinks how much he would like to leave now. How easy it would be to get out of the chair, grab his cane and _step-thump _his way over to that door. But for some reason, he finds it impossible to articulate it, to begin the process of movement.

His arm remains heavy, stiff, immobile.

"Relax. Let your eyes close..."

He suddenly thinks the darkness would be nice. Warm. Velvet. Black. With a sigh, he complies.

"Let your arm drop to your side."

It's easy now. So simple. He can sense feeling coming back, movement in his fingers; the strain in his muscles easing.

"We're going to chat awhile. Keep your eyes closed. Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes..."

"In your travels, did you have a favorite place?"

House doesn't even have to think about it. "Cairo...Egypt."

"Wonderful. It's so warm there. The sand stretches out for miles..."

"Pyramids."

_You know all about the pyramids at Giza. They're more like good friends than millenniums old ruins..._

"Did you ever sit on the sand at night, gaze up at the pyramids, at the blanket of stars?"

"Yes..."

_You are ten years old, lying on your back, and gazing at the night sky, whispering the names of the pyramids over and over...your knees are scuffed from the day's explorations, the air is ripe with the scent of camel dung..._

"The sand. It's just cooling off from the day's heat. Feels nice against the backs of your arms, the backs of your legs."

"Mmm."

..._Mykerinos the Divine, Chephren the Great, Cheops the Horizon..._

"...and your entire body is relaxed, and a wonderful heaviness has settled into every muscle. Your breathing is slow...slow, matching the rhythm of your heart. You need to rest...to sleep after a long day of play...

_Play. _The word jars him only slightly. He wants to remind the doctor that he is a geekboy and geekboys don't play as much as explore. But the words are lost to him as he begins to float. He does like to explore. Maybe that can be considered play. Except he is serious about his explorations. Nothing playful about them...

"Sleep would be nice, out here under the stars, buoyed by a pillow of impossibly soft sand. Those sands lift you, embrace you. The breeze is so pleasant, feel it brush your cheeks, your hair. You are drifting..."

_Chephren is the second largest pyramid in Giza. It is also the one closest to the Sphinx. He spends many afternoons here, examining the stones, savoring the ancient, mystical echoes of the ruin. How many eons have passed, generations come and gone..._

_He drifts..._

This is nice. He likes the darkness, the stars, this floaty feeling of heading off into sleep. But it's not really sleep, is it? More like the start of a journey. The voice pulls him along, then sends him off to somewhere new and strange. There is no pain, the voice repeats and repeats and repeats. No pain.

He almost believes it

_Deeper now..._

New and strange...

He drifts past Chephren as he floats off into the night sky. The pyramid grows smaller and smaller until it is no more than a dot below, a grain of sand. He feels sad to see it go. It was always his favorite.

_Breathe...deep..._

But the moon is perfect, round and brilliant, glowing like an image on a black velvet canvas. The Man In the Moon is smiling at him, which makes him feel warm and good...

_No pain._

and for the first time in a long time--at peace.


	4. Whispers and Moans

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and commenting. Much appreciated!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium ain't mine either.

**Thanks: **To NaiveEve and Betz88 for their wonderfully helpful insights.

**-4-**

"Whispers and Moans"

_It's been a long day..._

The voice is deep, even, hypnotic, interrupting the flow of her workday. It snaked its way into her head sometime during the early afternoon and has been an unwanted guest ever since.

Allison's day has been fairly normal (or as normal as any of her days can be). Work has kept her involved, engrossed. But she's made next to no progress on her current project. At this rate she'll never wrap things up by the time vacation rolls around. Davalos has her researching files on an unsolved killing spree in Milwaukee. Similarities between this case and a current local murder investigation can't be ignored.

_...a long day._

She gets no 'vibe' from her research, no bead on who the perpetrator might be as she sifts through ten or twelve possibilities. Perhaps something would click if her mind wasn't so fixated on this voice. Any other time she might suspect this...obsession might have something to do with her assignment. But no, Allison knows, without even weighing her options, that this is not the case. The voice belongs in that shiny little dreambox, the one where the knives and the house and the darkness and light already reside.

She sighs, once again delving into her notes on the screen. The words crowd into each other, pushing and shoving, getting in each other's way. Absently, she shakes her hand, which has gone heavy and numb...like an iron bar...

It's no use. The sentences are a garbled mess. Her fingers have stiffened up on her, which makes her more angry than concerned. She senses that this, too, is part of what has become an ongoing feast of mystery and misery.

While attempting to flex her fingers, she turns her gaze toward the window and studies the tops of the buildings, the low, fluffy clouds, the deep midday blue of the Arizona sky until...

...sensation floods back into her hand. She glowers, shakes it one more time for good measure, then forces herself to consider something fun, lighthearted. How excited her family is about the New York trip! _Yes, keep that thought glowing on the back burner..._

She gives a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall. 2:12. Time is a fleeting, mercurial thing. The day is flying. Soon it will be time to pick the girls up from school. But first she really needs to wrap her head around trying to get something done here.

_...we're going to have a chat...let your eyes close..._

Damn! No, it sure doesn't look like it's going to happen. That voice...is maddening in its persistence...

Her fingers stall over her keys as the voice continues its soothing drone on...and on...something about the absence of pain... of lying on sand...of a lovely warmth. She feels herself falling forward in slow motion, her forehead touching the keyboard. She drifts away for a moment. Her PC blips its complaint, causing her to blink and jerk her head up, dazed.

She spits out an expletive, blinks again and pushes her hair off her face with one angry swipe of her palm. Her gaze takes a cautious trek around the office. Fortunately, it's tea time; the majority of her colleagues are either smoking outside the building's main entrance or enjoying a mid-afternoon snack in the cafeteria. She is supposed to be holding down the fort. But her hands are trembling, her mouth is dry. Whatever or whoever she is channeling is not going to allow her life to continue the way it should.

And the major problem here, the sense she gets from this most recent interlude, is that it's just the beginning of something very bad. Maladjustment, anger, vindictiveness are all part of the big picture. But right now they are mere paint blotches on a practice canvas. There is no tone to them, no shape, just raw notions flickering in her mind's eye.

That...and the voice...

Resting her elbows on her desk, her face in her hands, she lets out a long, shaky breath. The owner of that voice is gone now but there is no telling when she might enjoy the pleasure of his company again. Her head feels lighter but--what's this? Sand. She flexes her toes and winces, sensing the roughness between them, the irritating grit that has somehow made itself at home there. Like she'd just taken a walk on the beach...

..._or through the desert..._

The cursor blinks at her from the LCD screen, as if waiting for some meaningful contribution. _It just ain't gonna happen_. Not today, anyway. She heaves a defeated sigh and begins to pack up, pushing her papers back in their file folders. Her stomach is growling. She'll forget the coffee and bagel she had planned on scarfing down before she left, and take the girls for ice cream instead. A treat. They'll like that.

In the corridor, footfalls echo, along with a bit of quiet conversation and a touch of laughter. Mary and Jennings have returned. She can smell residual cigarette smoke on them before they even step into the office.

Allison is sooo out of here, done for the day. With any luck, Mr. Superdrone is done for the day too. Maybe some sense of normalcy will take over when she leaves here. _Yeah, and maybe pigs live in beehives. _

She saves her work, powers down her PC, then grabs her purse from the corner of the desk. After murmuring her obligatory farewells, Allison heads for the door.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something isn't right.

Wilson thinks how strange it is that House arrived before him this morning. Usually, he'll stroll on in just as the little hand of Wilson's watch is ju-ust about sneaking up on the Roman numeral ten.

And as his team straggles in, House is already at the whiteboard. The differential is well underway before the steam from their coffees had a chance to warm their lips.

Like some sage in a lab coat, Wilson sees all as he strolls past Diagnostics, as he takes a few furtive glances through the blinds. House will call him on this subterfuge. It's inevitable. So Wilson invents a few lame excuses to toss out for when it happens. It's just a matter of time. Later he will gently confront House in a way that says he's not prying, just concerned.

_Concerned about House's visiting a shrink? Exploring uncharted territories in that House-ian mind? A dangerous undertaking, to be sure..._

Wilson mulls this over as heads to his office. And the more he ruminates, the more ridiculous he feels about obsessing over it. The guy just wanted to talk to a professional, get another angle on pain management. Right?

_If you say so, Jimmy..._

Settled behind his desk, Wilson sifts through his paperwork, attempting to begin the day on a productive note. But, really, nothing in the stack cries out for his immediate attention. With only a marginal twinge of guilt, he slips it all into a file folder and places it in his top drawer for later...after he figures out what is really going on with his friend.

What brought House to this point?

Wilson wonders...

...how House's evening went. Last night, while at the Knicks game with Tanya from Pediatrics, Wilson half expected one of those ill timed calls from House to interrupt the flow of things. When it didn't come, he forced himself to think pleasant thoughts and massage the top of Tanya's hand with his thumb.

The players danced and dipped and ducked, arena lights reflecting off their sweat drenched brows. Sneaker soles squeaked against the gleaming court as the ball was passed and tossed high, _thumping_ against the backboard before swishing through the net. It should have been exciting. Tanya grasped his fingers when the action got tight, when the players moved so close, he could feel their heat and tension rise, like the slow build of humidity before the cloudburst.

_And the crowd goes wild_.

But the cell phone's silence had been more deafening than the roar of that crowd.

It was probably a great game but the pertinent details escape him now.

Wilson's temples throb. It's only nine-thirty in the morning and already he needs to rid himself of this annoyance. He sighs, fixes his gaze on his blotter and uses two fingers of each hand to make slow circles against either side of his forehead.

_Why...? What is this new fascination? _

Now there is no escaping the curiosity that is spinning wildly, bouncing off every corner of the room like the Tasmanian Devil from those Loony Toons cartoons. _Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!_

He is restless. The walls are too close; it's as if the desk has him trapped, daring him to just try and leave this office.

_No!_

Wilson's penchant for mysteries stops at Hitchcock movies and medical cases. Otherwise he can do without them, especially when they involve House.

He pushes free of his desk. Scrubbing a hand through his already tousled hair, he makes his way out the door and hurries off to Diagnostics.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No, something isn't right here at all.

Wilson has returned to his ringside seat behind the vertical blinds...watching House's eyes gleam as he jabs a plastic knife (?) in the air to emphasize a point. He takes long strides, covering the length of the room, switches round on his sneaker sole to make the return trip. His team moves their heads in unison to track his steady pace.

His limp is nowhere near as pronounced as usual. The cane seems more of an accoutrement than a necessity. He twirls it once for effect, holds the knife eye level, and... lapses into silence.

Cameron meets Chase's bemused stare, Foreman gives an impatient hitch of his shoulders and riffles through some papers.

Wilson pushes the door open. The fact that his presence seems to snap House out of his daze doesn't escape him.

House blinks twice, smiles at Wilson, while pushing the knife deep into his jacket pocket. "Why it's Dr. Wilson, kids. Say hello, Dr. Wilson." He gestures to his team to repeat the greeting, which is met with silence and blank stares.

Seemingly nonplussed, House continues. "I was just telling the kids where they went wrong in their embarrassingly off the mark conclusions to the Health Channel challenge."

Wilson's gaze travels to House's free hand, which is rooting around in his pocket: the pocket with the plastic knife.

"Looks like Cuddy's not going to have to come through with the cash." He throws his team an exaggerated frown, then brightens again. "That's what you get for not paying attention to the little--"

"Are you done here?" Wilson asks. "I mean, you don't have a case. Can we talk?"

"You were spying on us before." House waggles a scolding finger, then sings, "I saw you."

"Yes, House, I figured you would-"

The hand in House's pocket stops its restless motion and slides into view. It's a fist now; the serrated point of the plastic knife is playing peek-a-boo from between two fingers. "It's not a good one," House murmurs almost apologetically, "But it'll do for a start."

"What?"

"It...doesn't shine..."

Wilson frowns, glances at the knife, then at House. His frown deepens as he turns to leave, motioning House to follow with a quirk of his head.

After gazing at the knife one last time, House returns it to his pocket, then follows Wilson out the door.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House is smiling again. He sits across the desk from Wilson and taps the rubber tip of his cane against the carpet in time...to something. _Bumpbump...bump da bump...bumpbump...bumpdabump_

"So how was your night?" Wilson asks, deciding not to express his annoyance over House's need for percussion.

"Good. How was yours?" _bumpdabump..._

"I mean," Wilson leans forward. "how was your appointment with the shrink?"

"Say what you mean then." House scans the objects on Wilson's desk. Really, there is not much to see. The desk is uncluttered. Near the pen cup sit two plastic ducks that waddle when you wind 'em. But House seems more interested in what's _in_ the cup than what surrounds it. "I may have been blessed with a multitude of talents but mind reading ain't one of them." His top teeth touch his bottom lip.

"How was it?"

"What?"

Wilson pounds his fist against the desk. "You're infuriating. Do you know that?"

"Yes." House's fingers light on the contents of the pen cup.

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you."

House pulls a letter opener out from the between the pens, pencils and Liquid Paper sticks. With great care, he holds it closer to the desk lamp, squinting as he leans forward to gaze at it. He turns it this way and that, the light catching the tapered tip...as his mouth falls open...

"House?" Wilson hitches forward in his chair. Something cold touches the center of his chest and leaves a lingering caress. "House!"

But House is otherwise engaged, gazing at the letter opener like it is a long lost lover or the most delectable delicacy on the pastry tray. Then, slowly, with great reluctance, he lowers it into his other palm, his eyes lighting on it one last time before tucking it into his jacket pocket...

_...next to its less impressive cousin, the plastic knife..._

He licks his lips, before fixing his gaze on Wilson. Then the chatter starts-- rolling off his tongue like it had been just waiting for its big chance. "Okay. You were so intent on pulling me away from my team. Now you're just...sitting there, gawking at me. I mean I know I'm pretty darn irresistible and all that but...wait a second. Could it be jealousy? Hmmm? Has jealousy reared its ugly head because I have a team and you...just have your windup ducks? House folds his hands in his lap. That odd, obsessive gleam in his eyes is fading, like morning fog over a cool blue lake. "You're pretty damn silent for someone who was so intent on goading me into having a conversation. Conversing is a two way street, by the way. Didn't they teach that in Oncology school? Well, maybe not." He sits back, crosses his legs. "It's your turn to talk..."

Wilson raises his brows, takes a deep breath, then lets it out slow. He decides to forgo the obvious question. But he can't help wonder if House is even aware of what he just did with that letter opener.

"How did your appointment go?" He tries again.

"I told you."

"No, you didn't. You just said it was good."

"It _was_ good, and there's nothing to tell. We talked. He gave me a relaxation exercise to help with the pain. It works." He lifts the cane, then lets its tip bounce off the carpet, again and again and again. "Anything else?"

"Did you take any Vicodin today?"

House snorts and affects an insolent sing-song tone. "Yes, Mommy, when I woke up."

"And what time was that?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Humor me."

For a moment, House's gaze seems to focus on something far, far away. "Five A.M."

Wilson rears back, incredulous. "You were up at five? Were you in pain?"

"A little." House scratches his head and scrunches his face, apparently straining to remember. "Couldn't sleep. Took a pill. Did the exercise he showed me."

"What exercise?"

"It's...something I do in my head." For a moment, House's face goes blank, then just as quickly rejoins the living.

"Really?"

"Yeah." House nods. "It helps. You should look into it." He works his shoulders, like he is limbering up for a run. "It might ease your troubled mind."

Wilson leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "Do it now."

"Nonononono." House shakes his head and chuckles. "Some things are for me and me alone. Get your own Svengali."

_Svengali?_

Wilson is more than interested now. He is positively intrigued. "What did you mean by that?"

"What?" House's hand is going for that jacket pocket again. His fingers rest against the fabric just above the opening.

Sighing, Wilson plants his elbows on the desk and fixes House with a weary look. "Svengali."

Frowning, House moves his hand down past the pocket and toward his right thigh. He rests his fingers against his jeans and after a moment begins to move his hand up and back. "I...don't know."

"You said it."

"It just came out." In a much too familiar way, he tightens his grip on his thigh and begins to slowly knead the aching area. His jaw works. His knuckles go white as he continues on in that desperate quest to ease the pain. After a moment, he croaks, "Your problem is you take everything too literally."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Who is this guy you're seeing, anyway?" Wilson rests his chin against the flat of his palm. "What's his name? Did you even check him out?"

House moans, lowering his head, his hand pushing and _pushing_ against that pain.

"And what's with those knives?"

His shoulders slump, his hand freezes in mid _push. _Then, slowly, House raises his head and Wilson can see the defeat in those eyes. Defeat and...something else. A hint of terror, as if he's just been shown a flickering silent movie of his own demise.

"This is _your_ fault," House hisses through gritted teeth.

"Take a pill, House," Wilson says softly. "You'll feel better."

"I was fine before you started-"

"Before I started bringing up things you didn't want to talk about?"

Shadows have taken residence deep within the furrows of House's brow; congregating inside the etched lines beneath his eyes. They lie grey against his stubble, smudging his cheekbones...

"This is your fault." House's breathing is labored. Wilson can hear it whistle deep inside his chest as he digs into his pocket, the one without the knives.

Now an amber vial is in House's hand. He shakes it once, twice. The rattle of pills is loud in the silence.

"How is it my fault?"

"_You _were the one who insisted on knowing who I'm seeing. You were the one who forced his way into _my business._" He thumbs off the cap, which seems to linger in the air for a moment before doing a triple somersault and falling under the desk. With a trembling hand, he shakes his pills into his palm. Two or three bounce off the desk and onto the carpet but neither man moves to retrieve them.

After dry swallowing, House glares defiantly past the wind up ducks and the pen cup at Wilson. "I was fine before you stuck your nose into where it doesn't fuckin' belong."

"I was just trying to help you, House." Wilson keeps his voice even, his hands folded before him. He sets his demeanor to doctor/patient mode. It's the only way he can make it through this altercation without throttling the guy across from him. "I don't understand what I-"

"You've helped bring back my pain." House pumps a fist in the air. "Yeah, right on, soul brother. Good job." He jams the open vial back into his pocket, grabs his cane and pushes himself to his feet. The cane is no longer an accoutrement, a House-ian version of a baton. Now it's simply...a cane, a primitive aid for Mr. Misery. House leans on it hard as he half staggers, half limps to the door. His gait is lopsided and achingly slow. Wilson remains mute, knowing House will head to his office, fall into his Eames chair and try to sleep off the pain.

The door opens; the door shuts. Wilson sits very still, steeping in the silence. He swallows hard, not realizing his own right hand has taken a trip to his right thigh until he finds himself rubbing it up and back...up and back.


	5. Lancelot

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium ain't mine either

**Extra Special Thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88** for their comments, suggestions and encouragement.

**-5-**

"Lancelot"

_This one...see how the light kisses the curve of its blade? Shiny...nice. So sharp. It will do..._

His pain has receded, mainly because he was able to...relax...completely.

Faulkner taught him how.

_...close your eyes and...focus on that small spot of light off in the distance...clear your mind of everything except...think of nothing else...but..._

_...no pain, no pain. No pain..._

That morning, after clashing with Wilson, House had locked his office door and settled back into his chair, easing his feet up on the footrest. And... almost immediately, the altercation became as fuzzy and indistinct as a distant memory, unimportant...insignificant. The only thing that mattered was the reduction of pain.

_Wilson's fault, that pain. _

He let himself drift into the vision, the way Faulkner taught him. The exercise worked almost too well. He missed lunch, and was rudely awoken by his pager going off. It was after two o' clock and Diagnostics had a new case. Could he come determine if it might be worthy of his tightly apportioned time?

Funny guy, that Foreman.

Shortly after working with his team on the initial differential, the parents of Dead Kid stopped by. House thought he was done with them the minute he had signed and dated the death certificate. Nope. Guess again. There they were: bedraggled, dazed, displaying their misery like it was an "I Just Lost My Kid" club banner. House suggested they wait to talk to Cameron (so caring, so full of empathy...). She should be finishing up that blood work he'd assigned her ju-ust about now. But, no they wanted him. He assured them they didn't, which sent the father into a fit of rage and left the mother in tears.

_...and here...serrated edge...sturdy handle...could cut through bone...under the light...it glitters and glimmers...yes..._

He smelled lawsuit. Summoning Cuddy seemed the sensible thing to do. She arrived, extending her hand and her condolences to the bereaved, then corralled them out of Diagnostics. House caught her disapproving, over the shoulder glare. Hell, she could scowl at him all she wanted. No way was he dealing with this crap.

_...this one...Wilson's favorite...used it for dicing and slicing...chop, chop, chop!...steel against wood...the short blade a whooshing, shimmering blur as it cuts the air..._

His appointment with Faulkner went by in a whirlwind of informative, companionable chatter. The guy was kind of cool, really, not as full of himself as House had at first thought. By the end of their session, House considered him someone he wouldn't mind hanging with. Sometimes. Maybe.

_Really? REALLY?_

The focus of that meeting, Faulkner had told him with a smile, was to give House an overview of what to expect from their subsequent sessions and to empower him with that no-fail relaxation technique. It all went by in a rush. It was a positive experience but, oddly, House can't seem to remember much about it. He actually thinks he had fun. But mulling it over causes melancholy to creep in like a low lying cloud.

He...can't...seem...to... remember the details, and is only allowed to catch meager crumbs of that laughter, that intense, stimulating conversation he feels certain he experienced. The more he tries, the more easily it evades him, like oil soaked eels slipping and slithering from his grasp.

_Was it all in his head? A Vicodin inspired dream, perhaps? _Was Doc Faulkner a product of wishful thinking?_ A too good to be true...Svengali?_

_Naw. C'mon._

The appointment couldn't have lasted more than twenty minutes, yet, according to his watch, House had been in that office for three hours. Had the meeting actually taken place?

Well, of course, it did. Faulkner's business card holds a hallowed place in House's wallet and the relaxation technique actually works. It is all the proof he needs.

_Time flies..._

It's all a blur...

_He-ey, what's with your mind? The infamous steel trap_. _The single most important ingredient of the cool Greg House party mix? Wha' happened, baby?_

House whistles a restless tune through his teeth, wishing his next appointment with Faulkner was tonight...right this minute. He wants facts, answers, not this disturbing uncertainty.

_Think...let your thoughts drift_.

He pictures himself entering the expansive apartment, following Faulkner down the long corridor, through the maze of rooms. He pauses at the showcase, mesmerized by the beauty of that ruby encrusted sword.

His body reacts to the thought, kicking up his heartbeat a notch, _motorvating_

(_chuggin'_ _along like in the Chuck Berry song...)_

that blood flow, pump, pump, pumping it hot through his veins as his breathing quickens...

The room tilts to one side, like a ship battling rough seas. His body follows the motion, weaving up and back, like a wino after a good blast. Closing his eyes against a wave of vertigo, he thinks how much he doesn't want to fall. It would be a bad thing to fall...

_Think...breathe...concentrate..._

Maybe next time, Faulkner will remove that sword from the case, allowing him to _touch_ it, to run the tips of his fingers over its hilt, up, up...to lightly brush those small sparkling stones...further now, running his whole hand across the blade, feeling it nick the sensitive area between his wrist and palm...

_Ah! _His own surprised gasp unnerves him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He looks around sheepishly, slowly, having no idea how long he has been standing in his kitchen, gazing down at the open silverware drawer. Forks and spoons rest in plastic dividers next to a combination beer opener/corkscrew, an unopened package of AA batteries...and knives. All kinds of knives. He scrutinizes them one after the other, lifting them to the light, letting their blades catch the glow, before reverently setting them in place again.

There is something he is supposed to do...yeah...it's important. But something tells him that enjoying, savoring, _delighting_ in his task is important too.

_His thumb rides down the long smooth blade of the carving knife. Just a bit more pressure, a tiny...push would break the skin. The thought intoxicates him. The floor shifts beneath his feet. Again, he closes his eyes as the world continues to revolve..._

The stainless steel cutlery was Wilson's contribution to the kitchen's arsenal. He threatened to never cook for House again if House didn't at least bring in some decent silverware. The pair of bent teaspoons and the abundance of plastic utensils in the drawer had not rocked Wilson's world. To Wilson this was more irritating than cigar smoke blown in his face, or damp towels left tossed and forgotten on the bathroom floor.

However, like many of Wilson's threats, this one turned out to be moot. When proper silverware didn't magically appear, Wilson caved and brought in his own high grade beauties...

...as House knew he would.

_It's time. _

_With great care, he mulls over his possibilities. It is a difficult choice. So many beautiful, gleaming specimens to choose from. After a few long moments, House makes his final selections. He sets five knives (three long blades and two wickedly sharp little cutters) in a neat, even row on the butcher block table, placing them so their hilts just touch its edge. __A gentle smile brushes his lips; the way the kitchen's overhead fluorescent brings out the beauty of the seductively smooth blades is..._

_...perfection._

He considers what he might use to wrap them. Folding them up in some...rag just wouldn't be right. It would be like shoving his Martin acoustic into some ancient duffle bag. He thinks...and thinks...and remembers a square of velvet, 12 X 12, folded neatly on the top shelf of the closet in his foyer. It has languished there for years and House isn't sure he had ever used it for anything. It's just one of those things that exists without real purpose.

Now it has one.

Melancholy has taken flight, leaving him with a feeling of warmth and incredible well being. Doing the right thing never felt so good. His heart keeps pounding that steady rhythm as the anticipation grows, as he heads toward the closet, opens it, breathes in the stuffy scents of his wool winter coats, as he stretches one arm high. Fingers meander under a cowboy hat, a box of catalogues from a cane company in Thailand, two scratchy scarves, Those fingers are diligent, searching and searching until they brush velvet. He takes a deep breath and, using both hands, eases the fabric off the shelf.

_Ahhh, yes, you are so happy._

House holds the velvet square to his chest, throws his head back and exhales slowly.

He has never felt so alive.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Allison loves this time of night. The girls are in bed, the dinner dishes washed and put away. The laundry is folded. It feels good. She feels...complete, settled beside Joe on the creaky porch swing, thinking how they must look like a pair of old codgers. But she doesn't concern herself with age or beauty, wrinkles or a youthful, vibrant complexion. She simply lays her head on Joe's shoulder and closes her eyes, as he places a warm hand on her jean clad thigh.

For now, for just this one moment, she feels..._normal._

Prior to going to sleep, Ariel and Bridget had a short but heated argument over the latest Harry Potter tome. Both girls wanted to use the book as their pre-bedtime reading material. Ariel claimed Bridget could not possibly finish a book of such monumental proportions (her words) so why waste it on her. After all, Bridget is only ten. Ariel, of course, is much older and wiser at fifteen.

Joe, who has played Solomon the Wise countless times since the girls became old enough to argue about such things as books and bedtime, had a brainstorm. Why not, he suggested with great, breathy enthusiasm, take turns reading the book out loud to Marie, who was much too young to do this for herself. This way, everyone would benefit. A chapter a night would do. Then they would all finish the book at the same time.

Allison blinks up at him. He is...a genius, The Great Speculator, making his living as a rocket scientist. Coming home to deal with three sprouts and a wiggy wife might unnerve a lesser soul but Joe seems to revel in it (most of the time).

"How are you?" His gaze lights on the house across the street, then shifts to the moon bright sky. "Really."

"Okay," she says, cuddling up.

"No clues?" he asks, one hand caressing the nape of her neck.

Sighing, she shakes her head. "No. I even checked with Davalos. Nothing's crossed his desk that sounds remotely like that dream or...whoever's been playing games...inside my head."

"Then maybe it's just that." He glances at her, then at the moon again. "A dream. Maybe it's just a bad dream that means nothing."

"And the arm thing and the falling asleep at the keyboard?"

"You were tired," Joe explains in his casual professorial way. "You're up at the crack of dawn, Allison."

"So are you." She pouts. "You don't get all hazy at your job."

"Sure I do. Everybody does."

"Do you hear a voice telling you that you've had a long day?" Allison says. "No. Your day is normal until you come home to me_."_

Joe smiles. "That's when my day really begins."

She sighs, shrugs and snuggles deeper into the crook of his arm. She doesn't want to think about the lights, the house or the knives right now, doesn't want to admit (not even to Joe) that she is afraid to go to sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_When she awakens, Joe is gone, most likely too tired to sit up anymore. Usually he wakes her and they toddle off to bed together. Tonight, she guesses, is different._

_But Allison doesn't mind. She has the cicada to serenade her. Breathing in the sweet night air, she folds her fingers over the edge of the smooth wooden swing seat to...listen and enjoy. The porch lights are off; the Man In the Moon smiles down. The wind picks up, carrying with it a pungent animal scent._

_The cicadas stop. They wait. Silence reigns, all except for the distant rumble of an approaching steed _

_Closer...closer..._

_...until the pounding of hooves is as loud as boulders tumbling down a steep incline. It causes the porch to tremble, the house to shiver on its foundation, the whole world to shake. Allison winces, pressing her hands against her ears and lowering her head until the rumble and quaking die away. _

_Slowly the cicadas pick up from the last stanza to continue their song. "Is it safe now?" they seem to ask. _

_Is it? _

_Taking a chance, Allison lifts her head to see_

_the stallion. Haughty and proud, he stands on her lawn, white flanks twitching, his nostrils flare as it tosses his head up and around. He snorts, stamps a hoof, plumes of brilliant white frost drift around him. She senses his impatience and knows she has to go_

_riding. Flying. Above the streets, the parks, the suburban malls and Wal-marts. Far away, across the fields, across the miles. So many miles. The country is all corn fields, she thinks. She observes. The steed's legs pump the air, like a swimmer at an Olympic mete. She clings to his glorious mane, feeling iron muscles shift beneath skin, as they descend_

_down, down into a forest, dark, dank and deep. _

_City lights surround this place, twinkling beneath the moon; spires of skyscrapers are just visible over the treetops. _

_From behind comes a rustle of leaves, a clanking of iron. She whips her head around to see a knight in armor limping out of the brush, using his sword as a staff. The sword is a beauty, its red jeweled blade catching the shafts of moonlight that shine through the tree branches like long, skeletal fingers. _

_The knight has been hurt somehow, perhaps wounded in battle, his right leg dragging as he makes his way toward her. His armor is rust mottled, dented, blackened in places. Blue light, as bright as midday in Phoenix, shines through the narrow eyeholes of the helm's visor._

_Allison holds tight to that mane as the stallion raises its forelegs. He whinnies a greeting, then clomps closer to the knight, pushing his nose against the armor clad shoulder. The knight grunts, his armor rattles as he shrugs off the steed's affection. With an irritated wave of his sword, he indicates for Allison to make room for him on the saddle. His armor clinks, clanks, metal squeaking against metal as he sets one foot in the stirrup. Somehow, despite his disability and the weight of the armor, he manages to mount the horse_

_and they gallop, heading deeper into the brush. Just when Allison feels this journey might end up a pleasant respite from the ho-hum, everyday routine, she sees a dot of light burning through the trees. She turns her head away and hugs the knight closer to her. His body tenses and she knows he wants to turn back as much as she wants him to._

_"Don't go there," she whispers._

_Through the layers of chain mail and steel a weary sigh echoes in response, as if he doesn't have a choice in the matter._

_They gallop closer, covering miles in moments. The stallion's pace shows no sign of slowing; hooves kicking up clumps of grass and damp forest mulch, which fly past Allison's head like cannonballs. Her frightened cries seem pathetic compared to the thunderous pounding of hooves. _

_They are closing fast in on their destination: the light, which is not a light at all, but that massive globe of knives and sabers and every sharp object that ever stabbed anyone in the gut. She has been here before. Like then she is repulsed and terrified. But now she can't help but be entranced by __the sphere that looms over everything, like an alien sun. _

_They are so close, too close. The stallion screams as he presses on, as the wind howls in Allison's ears; the steed's eyes roll back in its head, its breath rasps, white foam flies from its mouth. _

_The sphere is three feet, two feet...one foot away..._

_Allison can almost feel the swipe and hiss of those blades. It's as if they have already pierced her chest, bruised her heart. A warning chill runs down her back. She pummels the sides of the knight's carapace, willing him to pull back on the reins, but all she gets for her trouble is the notion of futility. It is already out of their hands, which is a cue for_

_panic to grip her like murderous leather fingers around her throat. Wrapping her arms tightly, fiercely around the knight, she squeezes her eyes shut as _

_the light smashes into her like a boxer's fist, as they_

_crash into the sphere; its intense heat reaches in to scald her lungs as she struggles to breathe. It is like being wrapped in a shroud of sun. The sense of being sliced and diced is overwhelming. By rights she should be nothing more than charred carbon flakes drifting over and around the battalion of blades._

_Allison takes a chance and inhales. Yes, she can breathe. The knight slumps over in the saddle, seemingly defeated. But he is breathing too. A crazed laugh escapes her as she realizes she hasn't been cut to ribbons; she is actually in one piece. Like a triumvirate of specters, they've passed through the heat and the blades and the brilliance unscathed._

_The horse trots in a slow circle, emits a gentle whinny, then clip clops to a stop as_

_the night air dries cool against his hot, damp skin. The scents of pine and horse dung and her own sour sweat fill her nostrils. She takes one more cleansing breath, peering cautiously from behind the knight to get a better look at _

_the house. It sits before them in a pool of murk. That blue light shines from its windows and through three new jagged holes in the sagging roof. The whole structure dips in the middle like a half baked cake, well on its way to sinking into the dank black mire._

_Armor clanks and rattles as the knight moves off the horse and hobbles toward the muck encrusted door. His movements are slow, like his limbs are being weighted down by more than just his uniform. But the armor won't be an encumbrance much longer; it is taking its leave of him, bit by bit, piece by piece... _

_...helm, carapace, backplate, boots, gauntlets, grieves..._

_...the various components of his armor clank and clatter as they slip off him, sending up dusty whirls of dirt as they hit the ground. _

_He is lighter now, clad in a suit jacket, jeans and sneakers. Tall, lanky, somewhat hunched, he possesses an odd sort of grace despite his disability. Allison can't seem to get a look at his face. He is crafty, diligent, wily, keeping his back it to her no matter how hard she tries for a defining scrutiny. So she takes in what she can: slightly wavy brown hair, threaded with strands of silver grey, short yet unkempt, sticking up in tufts on either side of his head._

_She is lucky to get that much._

_The last thing to leave him is the jewel encrusted sword. She senses his disappointment as it transforms into a black cane. But the cane is stylish, pretty fancy by her terms, with painted orange flames riding up from its tip, stopping just before its center. Ariel might call it 'bitchin' to her friends. He twirls it morosely once, twice, before entering the house, where he is greeted by a shadowy figure. The shadow motions for him to sit, then circles his chair. He is smoothly confident, intimidating yet captivating. Allison wishes she could see his eyes._

_Waving a silver wand twice in a circle, the shadow intones a word filled with such magical malevolence, it causes the man with the cane to slump forward and fall into a deep enchanted sleep._

_"Lancelot," the shadow breathes. "Lancelot."_


	6. The Waiting

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting (or just reading and enjoying). Have fun.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium ain't mine either.

**Beta Love: ** **NaiveEve **and **Betz88. **Thanks for the suggestions, encouragement and inspiration.

**-6-**

"The Waiting"

Allison wakes with a start from her dream of Lancelot and light, skyscraper spires and shadows with wands, and flying horses and...

"He's not here..." Her voice is as faraway as that dream.

But Joe hears her. With a soft, sleepy grunt, he rolls over and pats her hand. "He who?"

She gazes at Joe: her sleepy, tolerant husband, always willing to listen, even if what he is hearing is ridiculously fantastical, even if he is still half ensconced in his own dreams.

"The knight...his name is Lancelot. At least that's what the shadow called him." Pausing, she scrubs one hand through her hair. "He won't let me see his face."

"Mmmmph?"

"Mmph," she replies. "But...he's not here. He's thousands of miles from here. A city or near a city. Just on the outskirts."

"What make you think he's so far away?" Joe's eyes are open now, filled with that goofy 'just waking" wonderment.

"I traveled a hell of a long way to meet him. On a horse. His horse." She nods, the dream sliding through her mind's eye like a grainy movie trailer. "He's got a lot of fear. He's crippled, lonely, scarred. His armor was beat, dented, blackened...rusty. He wouldn't let me see his face, Joe." This last fact seems to bother her more than any other. Her voice rises, her stomach clenching as if she's channeling every one of her knight's anxieties. "And...someone is...just beginning to control him. Somehow." Raising one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, she closes her eyes and continues. "It's...just started. I can't see the guy either but, damn, he's frightening. So utterly proficient. And he's driven. It's like nothing is going to get in his way."

"What's the control issue?" Joe asks. "I mean, there are all sorts of ways one person can wield power over another. Is it blackmail?"

"Not that I can see."

"A weapon? Threat of bodily harm?"

"Yes and no. Knives are everywhere. But...I get the feeling they're just part of the big picture." She covers her face with her hands, breathes in her own soapy scent, then steeples her fingers under her chin. "It's something more abstract. Something like magic, like prestidigitation. Enchantment. Poof!"

"Poof."

"Now you see it now you don't...wave a silver wand...look into my eyes." She chuckles. Sometimes her own meanderings amuse her. "And...I don't even know what I'm saying anymore."

"So he's a knight? Interesting analogy for...something else." Joe manages to state the obvious without sounding the least bit derisive. Not an easy task, but he's had lots of practice.

Allison shakes her head, then flops back onto her pillow. "I guess." The red glow of the nightstand clock tells her it's 3:22 A.M. Typical dream chat time. Sadness digs deep inside her gut to excavate a tremulous sigh. "Maybe he's someone who helps people, saves lives. I couldn't see his face." Turning onto her side, she lets her gaze wander over Joe's long, angular face, his heavy lidded eyes, his pouty little boy lips. She feels the tension slip away, sleep sneaking in to take hold again. "I really...wish I knew for sure," she murmurs before drifting off again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I called you last night."

House considers the two pills on his desk. He puffs out his cheeks, swishes the air around a bit before letting it out slow. After an additional moment of scrutiny, he uses his forefingers to arrange the pills horizontally: an equal sign.

"Too busy to pick up the phone?"

He narrows his eyes, furrows his brow. With great care he rearranges the pills to lie vertically: chalk white soldiers waiting for orders.

"I thought you might have wanted to go for a beer."

House cocks his head, his gaze still locked on those pills. "I annoy the hell out of you, don't I?" With a slow lift of his eyes, he directs a sinister little smile at his colleague.

Wilson hefts a brow.

"You're digging," House proclaims. Using a pen and a forefinger, he bats the pills back and forth, finally pushing them into his cupped hand. "Can't stand to not know, to not be a part of the great plan."

"I'm just concerned-" Wilson stops, runs his tongue over his lower lip and leans forward. "I know I shouldn't bother asking but...what great plan?"

"That's between me...and me." House sets the pills in front of himself again. "Now don't you have some dying guy's wife to console?"

"You're trying to get rid of me."

"Bingo!" House applauds fervently as his jaw drops in mock amazement. "It's got to feel so awesome being right all the time. I wish I was you."

"You're going to your doctor tonight?"

"What if I am?" House gives him a cautious, sidelong look.

"You are, aren't you?"

"You say it like I'm off to plant a bomb under Cuddy's chair." Smirking wickedly, his gaze touches the ceiling. "Bang! Zoom! Spandex everywhere."

Wilson drums his fingers against the desk. "Let me come along. Just to see this guy at work. If he is all you say he is-"

"I haven't said he's anything." Something twitches inside him, some little 'on' switch that sets his blood churning and his pain to waken and greet the day. "And this isn't your concern, anyway."

"He's...changed you, somehow. After one session...you're different."

"And you're a drama queen."

It's starting again. The ache that had so obediently receded after the morning relaxation exercise has wandered in, tipping its fedora in greeting.

_...and who's fault is that?_

"I was feeling really good and now you've come along to ruin the day." House glares at the pills in his palm, like they're enemy agents sent to infiltrate the embassy. "Pretty crazy, huh? Thought I could get through the morning without these. But guess who pulled the plug on that?" He winces, dry swallows his meds, then sits back in his chair to brood.

"I'm sorry."

There is a soft knock at the door.

"Get out."

"House..."

Two more knocks, louder this time.

"Busy." House croons to anyone within range. He levers himself up with his cane and makes his way to his Eames chair in the corner. He sinks back, closes his eyes...

"Dr. House." New voice now. Had he drifted off? Fallen asleep? Leg feels better. House cracks one eye open to see that Wilson is gone. In his place, seated by the desk, is someone he doesn't recognize at first. House yawns, feeling hazy, floaty. Maybe the reduction of meds has lessened his tolerance to them. Maybe he's actually getting an honest to goodness Vicodin kick in the ass. He squints, pouts, focuses, then sneers as he remembers Dead Kid's dad.

"What do you want and who let you in?" House clicks his tongue. "Oops, strike that last question. My sympathy radar has fingered a youngish oncologist, who's going to need a new jaw once I get through with him."

The man's face is all angles and crags, making him look a little like the Marlboro Man. But the strawberry blonde hair, touched with grey at the temples, smoothes over those rough hewn features. His skin is fair; a sprinkling of freckles dapples the bridge of his nose. He wears a rumpled beige t-shirt bearing the legend "_Rosie's Grill-Best Darn Burgers Anywhere". _He is probably in his mid-forties, judging by how old Dead Kid was when he kicked, but could easily pass for thirty-five.

Dead Kid's dad stinks of gin.

"You wouldn't talk to me." His voice is almost a whine. "Tried to palm me off on everyone else. That's why I got angry."

"You talked to Dr. Cuddy. That should have sufficed."

"I wanted _you._"

"I get that a lot." A number of other inappropriate responses come to mind. House tosses them off a virtual bridge and says, "Soo, what's on your mind?"

"You could have saved him." He hiccups.

House lifts a fist, intending to pound the arm of his chair but thinks better of it, lowering his hand to his thigh instead. With a grunt, he eases his left foot to the floor, supports the right one with his hand to lower it gently. He scowls as he grabs his cane from where it rests against the wall. "If there was any way of saving your son, he would be alive now."

He pauses to make sure the words have made it through the thick haze of the guy's inebriation. But the blank look on Dead Kid's dad's face tells him nothing.

House continues. "The cerebral aneurysm caused a massive bleed in your son's brain. It was congenital, could have happened at any time." He spaces his words out enough so there is no chance of the guy misinterpreting him. "It was...like a time bomb, set off by the stress of the seizure. There is nothing we could have done."

"You don' care."

_Alrighty then..._

"I have to go. Which means you have to go." House ambles to the door and waits.

"Where do you _have_ to go, Dr. Goddamn All Mighty, Dr. _Fuckin' _Miracle Worker?" Dead Kid's dad wobbles to his feet, looking kind of green. He presses his hands against House's desk and lowers his head. It appears vertigo and nausea have conspired to shut the guy up.

"Go home to your wife", House leans against the door, a small smile tugs at the edges of his lips. Friend Vicodin has smoothed out the world. "Take her to bed, fool around. Live."

"You don't even know..." The guy's accusation is a growl.

"I _know_ your son is dead. It sucks, but that's the way it is." He holds open the door, gestures toward the corridor with his free hand. "Now, go. Leave. Get on with your life."

Dead Kid's dad weeps, his head bobs, sending a strand of that pretty, pretty hair flopping over one eye; great hiccupping sobs cause his shoulders to hitch up and down, up and down. For some reason...it's kind of funny. In fact, it's hilarious. The guy looks like he's about to break into some kind of spastic dance: the Shimmy, Shimmy Shake. Yeah, a dance. Next thing you know those feet are going to tip and tap and totter in time. Then...a song: _Oh, I'm so saaa-aaad. Sadness is my game. Loser is my name..._

House grips the push bar tighter, straining to keep those light little chuckles inside but, hell, he's losing the fight.

The weeping stops. Dead Kid's dad raises his head like a bull about to charge.

"Are you done?" House asks, snorting back another shard of laughter.

The guy whips around and reaches the door in three long strides. One trembling hand slams into the plate glass by House's left ear. His face is so close, House can count the scarlet roadmaps in the whites of the guy's eyes.

"What's his name?" the guy hisses.

"Better get some breath mints before the rendezvous with the misses." House coos. "Woo! Pretty rough going there--"

The guy pounds his fist against the glass, causing House to flinch, despite himself.

"What...is my son's name?"

House blinks.

"You don't even know, do you?"

House cocks his head, blinks again.

"I hope..." the guy begins as a tear streaks down one already saturated cheek. He narrows his eyes, takes a breath. "I hope something _bad_ happens to you, Dr. House. Something that will stay with you for the rest of your life." His smile is caustic, vindictive. "Something that will _haunt_ you every single day."

House shrugs. "Been there, done that. Want a list?"

"Obviously, those things weren't severe enough to give you an acute understanding of what inner torment really is."

"Thanks for coming." House tries for flippancy but can't seem to keep that fearful little tremor out of his voice. Now he just wants the guy to get lost. "Elevator's just down the hall to the left. Can't miss it."

The guy steps into the corridor and begins to stagger away, occasionally stumbling into the wall.

_Good boy. Now keep going, keep--_

After a moment he stops, stutter steps forward, then swivels round. "My son's name is David."

House pokes a forefinger at him. "Was."

"My name is Mark. My wife is Joanna." The guy's voice is as strained and grating as chains against asphalt. "Think of us when you hurt. When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. That's how I feel right now, Dr. House. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart."

Mark turns and weaves a sorry path down the hall.

"Drama queen," House mumbles. But his smile is gone.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

He storms into Diagnostics, feeling as though he's been set up. The altercation with Dead Kid's dad (and Dead Kid's dad he would always be) unnerved him to the point of near panic. Why did he laugh? He shouldn't have laughed. It was a release, yeah. But no, it shouldn't have happened. Better to be hitting something, lashing out. That would be the best way to combat the gnawing, irrational fear that maybe this guy knew something he didn't. A deep seated paranoia, an undeniable dread had taken its place in the conductor's chair and was now leading the band.

His eyes drift toward the clock on the wall. Three ten. Less than two hours until he sees Faulkner. His breathing slows. The thought soothes him.

His team knows what happened. It's obvious: the way they peer at him from over their papers, their cups of coffee. They've been sitting like this for who knows how long. Did Wilson consult with them? Tell them Dead Kid's dad was over in House's office getting his own back?

No one on his team even flinches when he shoves the whiteboard with his cane and sends it crashing to the floor

"This I don't need."

"What happened?" Cameron sets her file folder on the table.

"I'm the bad guy because I skipped Bedside Manner 101." He is shouting now. "Well, I guess my track record doesn't matter or the fact that this kid's death was because of a freakish whim of the congenital gods."

"That's true," Foreman says. "The kid's fraternal grandfather had polyeistic kidney disease, which caused an inherited connective tissue disorder. It skipped a generation and affected the kid."

"So the kid comes in seizing for no apparent reason, suffers a heart attack," Chase leans his chin on his hand. "His heart stops. We resuscitate him but at the same time he suffers a brain aneurysm and dies."

Foreman nods. "Yeah."

"So why dig up the particulars after the fact?" Chase asks.

"I thought House would want to know."

"Thank you." House spreads his arms and bows. "After all this time Foreman manages to assume correctly." Those eyes widen into huge blue/white saucers; his smile stretches to reveal a few too many teeth. "It's a marvel, an absolute wonder. I am...impressed."

"The stress of the kid's seizure caused the aneurysm to rupture. But the chance it would happen was always there." Foreman taps a foot and turns a page in his journal. "Nobody's fault."

"See?" House jabs his cane at Foreman. "See? He understands."

"Regardless, you could have sat with the parents for awhile after it happened. Wouldn't have killed you." Cameron throws him a bitter look. "They wanted to hear what you had to say--"

"They wanted to be placated." House's voice bounces off the walls. "I handed them over to Cuddy. She's got degrees in kissing ass and pandering."

His team heave a collective shrug and go back to their coffee drinking and file perusing. After a moment, Cameron raises her head to fix him with a troubled look.

"What?" he asks.

"What?"

"Is there a case?" House's heart suddenly begins to beat triple time. His mouth goes dry as he checks the clock again."

"No, House."

"Then...what?" Suddenly he doesn't want to talk to her. He doesn't want to talk to anyone except--

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Your hand." She tilts her chin at the fingers not gripping the cane. They tremble and quake like those of a palsied octogenarian.

"Low blood sugar," he grumbles, and pushes open the door. Head down, he pauses in the corridor, waiting for the passersby to pass (_keep movin', keep goin', no show here)_, his heart rate to slow, the tremor in his hand to calm, the minute hand to move on the clock face looming over him.

_Soon_, _a few short hours and it will be okay again. Everything will be okay. Reset the clock, reboot the comp. Settle down, settle in. Tune in, turn on, drop out._

_Soon._

_--------------------------------------------------_

Soon. Yes. Faulkner checks his watch and gives a satisfied sniff.

To everything there is a season...everything has it's place in the world, in science, in judgment. And...in this room. Achieving the desired results in his work requires diligent planning and forethought.

He takes three even strides to the wall behind the reclining chair. On the wall is a thermostat, which controls the room's air flow. Proper room temperature is a most vital element in achieving the desired results from his patient. He hunches his shoulders as he squints at the reading. Seventy degrees. Too high. It must be cooler in here, more comfortable, more conducive to sleep.

His froth light laughter fills the room, like sparrow wings flittering and fluttering against the desk, the curtain rods and walls. He is giddy with excitement and anticipation, like a teenage boy about to experience his first taste of a woman's pert pink nipple. Things are going so well. After only one session, he has achieved more, brought the doctor farther along than he could ever have anticipated. But there is no sense basking in overconfidence. Who knows if the most essential suggestion took: the one that would start the doctor on the most important journey of his life?

Faulkner's forefinger taps the thermostat dial, nudging the temp down a notch to sixty-eight...then sixty-six. Straightening his shoulders, he lifts his head as if to test the air. The sensors in the vents click and hum, announcing their acceptance of the temperature change. Ah, yes. Lovely.

He stands in the center of the office, adjusts the black tie that doesn't need fixing, smoothing the flat of his palms over his crisp tan shirt (colors are important to winning his subject's trust, familiarity garners comfort).

Faulkner practices the smile he will use to greet his patient today. It must be the same as it was the day before yesterday. Calm, confident, cool. He heads for his desk, twitching his lips up a smidgen, yes...now, just a smidgen more. _Yes. _He checks his reflection in the hand mirror he keeps in the middle drawer. Perfect, of course. Wasn't really necessary to look, was it? But no sense getting overconfident. This is too important to risk falling prey to carelessness or slipshod planning. Control is vital; control is key.

Let's see now. The look in his eyes, that's the tricky snare, the snickety wicket, as his mother used to say. Oh, yes. The eyes have to convey unflinching confidence yet exhibit warmth, friendship, caring.

_Trust me..._

Brown eyes, dark, clear and deep. Can't even see the pupils. You can fall into that blankness, find warmth against the chill of the room. He makes them crinkle at the edges

_Trust me...trust me._

He tours the office, making sure the watercolor prints along the wall are straight and dust free. This morning, he made sure to freshen the flowers in the vase on his desk They are beautiful, bright yellow daffodils, same as the day before yesterday. The very same pens are in the pen cup. _Check. _The blue chair has been reclined exactly three inches back. _Check._ Window blinds are open just enough to allow in dusty slants of late day sun.

_So nice..._

Now it is cool in here. Comfortable. A place one might want to settle in and enjoy a little nap.

As he checks his watch, he stifles another chuckle. Like a woman trying not to ruin her makeup, Faulkner is loath to disturb his game face.

All that's left is the waiting.

The cell phone in his trouser pocket burrs against his thigh, an annoyance, but a necessary one. He knows who it is. If it were anyone else, he would let the call go to voice mail. But he knows it's Johnny. And, of course, Johnny's happiness and satisfaction are as important as his own.

Faulkner removes the phone from his trouser pocket, flips it open then lifts it to his ear, keeping that grin intact.

"Hello, John," he coos as he tours the room again. He talks as he walks, the rhythm of his steps forming a soothing synchronicity with his words.

John is somewhat agitated, of course. But Faulkner patiently reassures him, as he did yesterday and the day before, that progress is being made.

The distance between them is by necessity not choice. If they had their way, Johnny would be in the office to observe and enjoy. But the satisfaction he would gain from that experience would not be worth the consequences it might bring. His presence would put both men in jeopardy.

So he remains where he is. If all goes as planned, Faulkner will set up a webcam to allow Johnny a few moments each day to witness Dr. House's descent. John deserves that much.

John's choice of friends and the...unconventional lifestyle he leads was, at one time, a sore point between the two men. But these days Faulkner rarely mentions them. John's outside interests have nothing to do with the project at hand. What John does, he does. If he wants to screw up a second chance, so be it.

Their chats need to be short. Just a rushed hello, a rundown of the most pertinent information before a quick sign off. Once the webcam is in place, they will indulge themselves for a few extra moments. Until then, it's best to keep things the way they are.

By the office door, a small red light blinks, a sign that someone is buzzing for access into the building.

"He's here," Faulkner announces to the man at the other end of the cellular connection. They wish each other farewell. Johnny's voice is tinged with hope and some regret, which saddens Faulkner. Johnny has as much right to be here as he does. More, as a matter of fact. But it's impossible. They both understand that the end will justify the means. And the end will be here very soon.

He pushes a white button below the red light, unlocking the security door in the lobby. Closing his eyes, he breathes in deeply, mentally checks his smile, his _look, _before heading for the door.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. House is not looking so good.

The hard _ka-thump _of Faulkner's heart against his ribs causes him to suck in a breath as he peers through the peephole. The doctor's eyes are red rimmed, his mouth works silently as he brings a trembling finger to press the doorbell again.

"Doctor House?" Faulkner opens the door and sees relief wash over his charge like a cool spring rain.

"Yeah."

House is leaning on the bell like it's a lifeline. The grating _bzzzzzzzzzzzz_ echoes down the outer hallway and fills every corner of Faulkner's foyer. Gently, Faulkner touches House's finger to ease it off the bell.

"Oops." House says softly. A black vinyl laptop bag is slung over one shoulder. As he shakes Faulkner's hand, the motion causes something in the bag to shift with a metallic _clinky-clank _sound...

...which sends Faulkner's heart soaring. "Come in, Doctor."

They walk in silence down the hallway, through the maze of rooms. House's uneven strides make a muted _ba-thump, ba-thump _against the plush carpet.

The sight of the figurine case causes House's pace to quicken. He is almost breathless as he stands before it, his eyes wide, hungry, mouth agape as he takes it all in, as his gaze drops to that sword.

"You really like that, don't you?" Faulkner chuckles lightly as he touches House's arm.

House's only response is a bob of his Adam's Apple as he swallows...and continues to...stare.

"It is beautiful, I know," Faulkner tells him.

"Let me..." House tilts his head, strokes the glass.

"Soon. Be patient." He leads the way to the office, pushes open the door and motions for House to enter.

Faulkner notes how there is no hesitation this time. No reticence. The doctor is comfortable, maybe even happy to have returned.

"Have a seat," Faulkner tells him. "Over by the desk."

House's gaze flicks toward the recliner.

"I'd like for us to chat first before you rest." Keeping that smile going, pats House's forearm before passing him and hitching himself up on the edge of the desk. "Please, Doctor." He motions to the high back chair before him. "Sit."

Hitching his bag higher on his shoulder (_clinkity, clinkity clank)_, House moves toward the chair.

"Please set that down anywhere you like." Faulkner eyes the bag before locking eyes with House. "Anywhere at all--over by the recliner, or by the door."

"That's okay." House sits. That _something_ inside the bag makes a jolly little jangle as he places it carefully by his feet.

"You look pretty beat."

"I guess. Long day." House pinches the bridge of his nose.

Faulkner gives him a moment, a half note rest before removing a pen from his pen cup. The pen is silver, shiny, catching the overhead light as he tilts it this way...then that.

"Do you mind me asking, Doctor," Faulkner begins, lifting his eyes toward the pen, his smile broadening as House does the same. "what's in the bag?"

House blinks, tilting his head, his eyes tracking the motion. "I..."

_Breathe..._

"What's...in...the...bag?"

"I don't remember..."

_Trust me..._

"Of course you don't. Keep your eyes on the pen, Doctor. See it shine? So pretty. Sooo beautiful."

Obediently, House watches open mouthed as Faulkner waves the pen up, down and all around. Now it is a silver wand filled with magic, created to enchant, to mystify. All that is needed to complete its spell is the magic word...

"Lancelot," Faulkner breathes...

...and House is transformed into a spellbound rag doll. He flops over, head bobbing, practically touching his thighs as he falls into a deep enchanted sleep.


	7. Entangled

**A/N: **Theitalicized quotes in the second part of this chapter are taken from the introduction to the TV show "The Outer Limits". The show was a 1960's horror/sci fi series, very much a precursor of "The X-Files". Wikipedia can tell you more (you can find the entire quote there too!). As always, thanks for reading, reviewing and, hopefully, enjoying.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium ain't mine either.

**Special thanks: **to my beta **NaiveEve** and first reader **Betz88** for their inspiration, encouragement and brilliant suggestions.

**

* * *

**

**-7-**

"Entangled"

The crime scene is quiet. But the carnage Allison senses is inside the house announces itself with strange, disturbing noises in her head. WHAM! A crackling burst of heat lightning and a child's wail sound with such finality, Allison wishes she could turn away, retire to the comfort of her home, her husband, and her children. But she can't. Shivery whispers echo, pleading with her to stay, to search for the source of their sudden transition. They seem lost, dazed, but not frightened, never frightened. They surround her. Yes, there is a child involved. She can feel that boundless energy dip inside her, as if for one last taste of life.

The rich smell of iron, of _blood_ is everywhere, melding with the scents of fresh grass and barbecue.

_Blood spatters...almost black against the beige...a quick shriek...a soft defeated sigh..._

No child should have to experience such brutality.

A songbird twitters, well hid by Mother Nature in the tree on the front lawn. Police radios squawk a response. A squirrel scurries by, dashing through a cordon of detectives and street cops before disappearing up, up, joining the bird in the tangled network of leaves and branches and nests.

A group of onlookers stands at the watch behind bright yellow police tape. They are mainly housewives, who chatter amongst themselves in hushed, almost reverent tones. They've abandoned their dusting and TV soaps, since no daytime drama could be as interesting as a real murder right next door. Right next door! Their eyes widen as they point at the news trucks, ogle the familiar face of the first TV news person on the scene. They sip coffee from porcelain mugs. Kids scamper between and around them, occasionally pausing to stare open mouthed at the spinning red and yellow lights atop the police cruisers.

Despite their growing excitement, these women and children never make sounds louder than a whisper. Even the combed out and primped up woman from Channel 9 speaks to the camera in low, remorseful tones, as if she is in church.

"Thanks for coming, Allison." Detective Lee Scanlon, her one friend on the force, falls into step beside her. She doesn't realize she has been pacing until he matches her restless movements, stride for stride.

"Hi, Lee." She pauses, shakes her head slowly, attempting to silence the voices, just for a moment. It doesn't work. "How...is it in there?"

"Nothing you'll want to tell your kids about." He turns toward the entrance of the simple two story Colonial. "Come on, the sooner you have a look, the quicker you can get out of here."

He has long legs, a loping stride, which gets him to the door before her. Like a doorman stationed at the entrance to an upscale hotel, he holds the door open, tosses her a sad, crooked grin as he waves her inside.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_'...we will control the horizontal...'_

Faulkner is pleased. Choosing the prompt "Lancelot" to place the doctor into this alternate state of consciousness was one of his most laudable ideas. The word encompasses magic, enchantment. It brings to mind the jeweled sword, which will never be too far from the good doctor's thoughts anyway. But "Lancelot" will remind Dr. House of his goal to possess that sword, each time he falls under the word's spell.

'..._we will control the vertical...'_

"Imagine you're on an escalator, riding slowly down into a velvet blackness." Faulkner begins. "And the further you descend, the deeper and more pleasant your sleep becomes." Faulkner circles the chair once more, running one hand along the back of it, letting his fingers skim across House's shoulder. "Go deeper...deeper."

House's mouth moves. His face is a mass of concentration as he purses his lips...as he forms a word...

"No._"_

Astonished, Faulkner stands frozen in place; his hand drifts to his side. For a few long moments, he looks hard at his charge. This resistance, this rebellion was totally unexpected. He cocks a brow...

...then kneels at the side of the chair, speaks in a low, even tone. "You're cold."

House's mouth moves again, he shifts in the chair, this way, then that...as if trying to escape...

"It's freezing, too cold to be out here in the elements. The frigid air whips at you, stinging your skin. You're shivering now, fingers numb, thigh's beginning to ache."

He watches House grip that right thigh with a shaky hand; notes the chattering teeth. With a sigh, Faulkner rises to his feet, leans against the desk and folds his arms across his chest. He beams, enjoying the show, as House rocks up and back to ward off the frigid landscape his mind has thrown at him.

"But it's so warm in the depths," Faulkner croons, stepping forward. "You want the warmth...you need it. You're hurting, that cold chills you, bites into your skin. You must go deeper...down into that blackness, immerse yourself in that warmth."

House head bobs once, twice as his shivering ceases; his mouth opens slightly, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing.

"Very good." Faulkner keeps a wary eye on his charge. Slowly, he rubs his hands together, then hitches himself up on the edge of his desk again. "Now, sit up straight."

House attempts to comply, although his movements are slow, logy, labored.

"Your limbs are light, free. You feel good...so warm...no pain."

Immediately, House shifts in his chair, straightens his back and sighs.

"Very good, Doctor," Faulkner adjusts his smile to convey warmth, empathy, caring. "Now, you will remain in this relaxed, pleasant sleep state. But when I tell you to, you will open your eyes and feel extremely well and happy. We're going to have a conversation, just like best friends do." He waits a beat and observes his charge, before asking, "Do you understand?"

"Friend?" House murmurs. He winces as if the word has struck a nerve.

"Best friend."

"No." House runs his tongue across his lower lip. A crease forms between his brows as he tilts his head. "Wilson," he says with a quiet air of finality.

_A snickety wicket, Billy..._

"Open your eyes, Greg."

House inhales deeply, exhales slowly, then presses his lips together as he blinks at Faulkner.

"When you're here, I am your best friend. You will call me Bill. I will call you Greg." Faulkner lifts one brow and peers down at him. "Understood?"

"Wil-son." House pouts.

Another shred of dissension. _Another snickety wicket...We must do something about this, Billy._

"Tell me about Wilson."

"He's my friend."

"I know." Faulkner thinks. The wheels _clickety-click._ "He makes you mad sometimes, doesn't he?" he says. "There are times, well, heck, times you just don't like him."

House gives him a wide, questioning stare. "No."

"You need to know that I am a much better friend than Wilson could ever be. I take your pain away." Faulkner smoothes his tie and frowns, wondering about these obstacles thrown into his path, this handful of nettles strewn across the road. "Think about a time Wilson's done something to hurt you. A time he's made you feel bad."

"No." House shakes his head, rubs his eyes like a sleepy four year old. "Dead Kid's dad."

"Who is that, Greg?"

"He...made me feel...he tried to put a curse on me. This afternoon," House scoffs. "As if..."

"Really?"

"I couldn't save his son." He shrugs. "He thought he could curse me. Socked it to me."

"You believe in that kind of thing, Greg?"

"No."

"I think you do." Faulkner says. "Down deep where you are now. You believe."

"I...don't know." He tugs at a lock of hair by his ear, then lets his hand drop to his side.

"I see." Faulkner's optimism comes hurtling back, like a volleyball thrown hard over a net. "What did...Dead Kid's dad say?"

House gazes at the ceiling, as if willing himself back to the moment of confrontation. "He said...think of us when you hurt. When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart." With a forlorn sigh, House bows his head and folds his hands in his lap.

_'...we can change the focus to a soft blur...'_

Faulkner savors this offering, this brilliant little trinket that's been thrust into his palms. It's like finding a twenty dollar bill in an old pair of dress pants. "You remember those words so well."

House nods.

"That's because you sense their incredible power, Greg." Inclining his head and narrowing his eyes, Faulkner continues, drawing each word out slowly, deliberately. "Think of us when you hurt. When the pain gets so bad, you wish death would take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart."

"Cursed..." House mumbles, staring blankly at the hands in his lap.

_Gotcha! _Faulkner smiles. "I want you to remember them. Keep them safe in your mind Those words can hurt you, cut you, cause your leg to ache and throb and _burn _each time you think of them."

House's lips twitch. He grunts softly, moving his hands to the arms of his chair, wrapping his fingers tightly around the smooth dark wood. He grimaces, groans, swings his head from side to side like an injured beast.

"I know it hurts."

"_Cursed!" _The word escapes as a hiss through gritted teeth.

"But I think I know of something that can remedy that hurt."

Raising his head slowly, House gives him a half tormented, half hopeful look.

"Because I'm your best friend."

"_No..."_

"Because...I am...your best friend."

"N-"

"...when the pain gets so bad, you wish death would just take you," Faulkner recites in a gentle tone, like he is crooning a lullaby. "Isn't that what Dead Kid's dad said?"

"Yes." House is doubled over, one hand frantically massaging his right thigh. The other scrabbles for something in his jacket pocket.

"Your pills can't help you, Greg."

His chest heaves as he searches...searches...but there is no telltale rattle of meds, nothing to bring him comfort...

The vial from House's pocket makes a _shoka, shoka, pok, _sound as Faulkner shakes it and taps it against the desk. Off House's feeble look of surprise, Faulkner grins as he says..."Only I can help you." He is off the desk now, kneeling at House's side again. "And why is that?"

House bares his teeth, throws his head back. The right hand continues to knead, the palm pressing and pressing against that thigh. "Best friend..."

"Who?"

"You...Bill."

"Very good." He sets one hand against House's sweat dotted brow. "No pain. Eyes closed. Go deeper now, ride the escalator down...down into warmth, into blackness."

House's breathing slows. His shoulders relax as he falls back into his seat. Faulkner whispers in his ear. "Open your eyes."

Slowly, House's eyes open. For a moment he looks confused, lost in the cornfield, but then the light goes on.

_'...or sharpen it to crystal clarity...'_

"Let's look at something wonderful together, something magical, that something I promised would keep the pain away."

A corner of House's mouth lifts in anticipation.

"It's in the bag you brought with you."

'..._you are about to participate in a great adventure...'_

House's eyes twinkle, shining and shimmering like polished jewels. He is enrapt, entangled in this strange sticky web Faulkner has so deftly woven.

"What's in the bag, Greg?"

"Kni-ives," His voice cracks. It is a voice so filled with need, it sets Faulkner's heart _ka-thumping _triple time again.

Despite his excitement, Faulkner gives his desk a methodical once over. Humming a soft, slow tune, he lifts the vase of yellow daffodils and sets it further back. He places the pencil cup next to it so there is ample space available for the items in the bag. Then, with great care, he lifts the bag onto the desk, its contents _tinging_ and_ tanging_ in metallic anticipation.

He smiles at House. House smiles back, seemingly relaxed, happy, and open to anything.

_Best friends._

"Come here, Greg." Faulkner says, extending his hand. "Stand next to me. Let's look at these wonderful things together, shall we?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Death reveals itself to her in dark spray of images, sounds and smells, which reside behind a screen of shiny gloss and tempered glass. If she is in the right place, at the right time (like now), she is thrust behind that screen, forced to consort with those who've been placed there through no fault of their own. At times she envies those who aren't 'blessed' with this sight, who haven't a clue as to what horrors surround them every time they step out their doors. For death is everywhere.

Ignorance is bliss.

She remains beside Scanlon as they stroll through these rooms, past crime photographers snapping those few final photos of upended tables and blood soaked carpeting (the bodies are gone, thankfully, already tagged and slabbed in the morgue).

"And then there were three," Scanlon says as they meander through these rooms. "A Mom, Dad, and one daughter, fifteen years old. Parents were both cut down in the master bedroom. And the kid..." They are greeted by white tape marks on the aqua colored carpet. The markings form the shaped of a cutout dancer frozen forever in a one-two kick. "He stabbed her three times in her room over there. She tried to run but he caught her here. He points to the cutout by their feet. "Stabbed her so many times her entire chest cavity was nothing but goulash."

They move on...

It seems 'X' marks the spot, many spots actually. Scrawled across the candy pink walls of the girl's room, a string of loving kissy-poo X's have been scrawled in the innocent blood of the victim.

Just like in Minnesota, a few months before.

They are about to follow a crimson trail into the master bedroom, when a bright trill of laughter causes Allison to freeze in midstep. She turns slowly and hears it again, ringing true from the daughter's bedroom.

"What was her name?" She touches Scanlon's arm, but her psyche is already halfway behind the black glossy barrier.

"Alexandra..."

She takes a step toward the girl's room. "Could you give me a few minutes?" she asks. But she doesn't stop, doesn't wait for an answer.

And here is Alexandra, sitting on the floor, her back to the door, head bopping, fingers snapping, a copy of _Teen Beat_ open in front of her: just where it was when she ran.

Alexandra has short, shaggy black hair, streaked blue on the spiky strands atop her head, the wispy curls behind her ears. The daubs of color are like the afterthoughts of a wandering artist.

"Alex?"

Her head swivels but she doesn't stop her boppin'. She pops her gum, tosses her head back and laughs again. "Heyyyy." She sounds much too alive for a dead girl.

Allison gives her a tentative wave. "Hey. My name is Allison."

"Hey, Allison, you like Harry Potter?"

"I do." Allison seats herself on the edge of the bed.

Alexandra turns a page of her magazine, unmindful of the fact it is brown, soggy, saturated with her blood. Her blouse is in shreds where the knife did its worst. But there is no blood. The last of it had spilled earlier on.

When she speaks, it's _rat-a-tat-tat,_ like she's competing for the gold cup in the Motor Mouth tourney. "Y'know, Daniel Radcliffe is a babe but he doesn't look like Harry when he's not being Harry. Do you know how cool it is that an actor can do that? How an actor can actually become someone else? I mean I couldn't do it. I would just be me in someone else's clothes, using a fake name. Which is why _I'm_ not an actress."

Her smile is so beautiful, it makes Allison want to kill the perp herself. When they find him.

"It is a talent."

"But some of these other guys in this rag are just...gross." With a disgusted flap of her lips, Alexandra grabs the magazine and tosses it over her shoulder. It sails toward the door and lands with a soggy _fwap._

"Could you tell me what happened here, Alex?"

"What happened?"

Sometimes they don't know. They don't realize how much everything has changed.

"Someone came into your house. Hurt you and your mom and dad."

Alexandra's smile flies off on mottled grey wings. Allison is sad to see it go.

"Do you remember?"

Alexandra shrugs, picks at a piece of blood smeared carpet, then flicks it away.

"If you can tell me something, anything about the person who did this, it may help you...move on." Allison's voice is as soft as a pillow, as gentle as a feather's touch.

"I don't want to 'move on'," Alex says. "I like it here."

"You're alone."

"I have you now."

Allison opens her hands in an entreaty. "Please tell me what happened, Alexandra."

She is like any fifteen year old, strong willed, always right. This could be Ariel sitting on a patch of blood saturated carpet, singing the praises of Daniel Radcliffe. Allison's breath catches at the thought...

"It wasn't fun." The girl shakes her head, rubs her hands on the stiff, bloodied rug. "And stuff that's not fun, well, I don't like to think about."

"The person who did this to you...and your mom and dad...thought it was fun." Allison places her hands on her knees and leans forward to add, "I don't want to see anyone else suffer because of them."

Alexandra seems to consider this as she holds her hands up before her. They are crimson from the cuticles down to her wrists. She gives them an additional moment of scrutiny before fixing her gaze on Allison. "He was big. He had big hands, big ears. When he laughed it was like he was growling, like a wolf or a bear or a lion. Held the knife above his head, and it was too bright, made my eyes hurt. Then everything hurt. Before it was over I heard him tell Johnny all about it. How the knife was red and the walls were covered in kisses." She hung her head.

"Who's Johnny?"

"His friend on the phone. He was talking to him all the time he was...working, telling Johnny everything, like an announcer at the baseball game, where you have peanuts and cotton candy. I like that a lot. You like cotton candy, Allison?" Alexandra clasps her hands together and thins her lips, waiting.

"Yes. I do."

Alexandra's form is fading. The entire crimson splotch on the carpet is visible now that the girl is just a candy floss wisp.

Moving off the bed, Allison sighs and heads toward the door, but pauses in mid stride to turn and take in the room once last time: the room where Alexandra lived.

_What if it was Ariel?_

Fighting off a shiver, Allison turns and gets out. Fast.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The silver shine against midnight black is...beautiful: as intoxicating as a rare wine brought out once a year to celebrate something enormous, something monumental...

...something life altering.

"See how they gleam? It's hard to take your eyes from them, isn't it?" The two men stand in front of the desk, scrutinizing the seven knives on the square of velvet. Faulkner rests one hand against the middle of House's back. "And you've kept them so sharp-"

"Wilson-" House plays a one handed sonata in the air above the cutlery. "-is good for that."

Faulkner watches his charge's eyes, how they begin at the left, then shift, shift, shift to the right, savoring the beauty of each knife. He favors every one of them with an adoring gaze, as if the knives are his beloved children.

"You will not mention Wilson to me unless I specifically ask you about him," Faulkner strokes the tip of the carving knife, pressing his other hand more firmly against House's back. "Do you understand?"

House's mouth moves, one hand goes for a paring knife but Faulkner clamps down on his wrist. "If you mention Wilson again without my asking, your leg pain will be so excruciating, not even your relaxation exercise will work to remedy it."

House's hand tenses under Faulkner's grip. He can feel the bones in House's wrist stiffen. His brows raise in surprise as the hand becomes a trembling fist.

_Dissension in the ranks, Billy boy. Got a live one here. Bring the focus back to the task at hand..._

"Relax...let your mind drift...let your thoughts caress the knives. You've done a very funny thing here. What is that little white plastic knife you've brought? I like that. A sense of humor. Lovely, very nice..."

House's hand slips from Faulkner's grip and drops to his side. He smiles, looking pleased, proud.

"And this one...not exactly a knife, is it?" Faulkner holds the letter opener up to the light, House's eyes following along. "Is this yours?"

House remains silent. His eyes continue to stare as Faulkner turns the opener over and around to catch all the nuances of light.

"Is...it...yours, Greg?"

"Nah." He shakes his head slowly.

Faulkner's eyes narrow. "Wilson's?"

A quick intake of breath. "Yes."

"Why did you bring this with you, Greg?"

House shrugs, blinks, his smile drifting off into the ether.

_Interesting._ A part of the doctor's subconscious, a very small part, obviously has a battle plan. And this letter opener was brought along for protection: It is a talisman, Wilson's possession, that somewhere deep down, the doctor thought might be a shield to ward off harm. Some part of him is fighting, frantically flailing virtual arms and legs to keep his mind from sinking deeper under the murky waters that will eventually drown him.

"Take your cane," Faulkner tells him. "Follow me."

Obediently, House grabs his cane from where it leans against the side of the chair. He trails behind Faulkner, ending up on the opposite side of the desk. Faulkner fixes him with a somber look, then bends down and retrieves a black wastebasket from beneath the desk. Inside are a few crumpled Post-Its, a ripped tissue, and a blue pen cap.

"Hold out your hand, Greg."

Slowly, House opens one hand and holds it out before him.

"This letter opener belongs to Wilson." Faulkner sets the dull blade across House's palm. "You no longer need it, just as you no longer need him."

House raises his eyes to meet Faulkner's. There is a challenge in those depths, an ego struggling to break through the wall Faulkner is working with such diligence to complete.

"Inside the basket is bottomless black hole," Faulkner says, his hand pressing lightly on House's back again. "Look deep, Greg."

His eyes flicker their resistance.

"I said...look deep."

Fingers wrap around the hilt of the opener, lips press together, bloodless, white and cold through the stubble.

_Fight, fight, fight..._

but there is enough bewilderment in those eyes to assure Faulkner he still has the upper hand.

_Dissension_

"The pain...is truly extraordinary," A swatch of sympathy tinges Faulkner's tone as he continues, "riding up and down that leg, worse than it's ever been."

House lets out a surprised gasp, then groans; his shoulders bunch as he drops the opener to grip his thigh. Whatever fight he had in him seems to have abandoned the field of battle, gone away for another day.

"Greg?"

"Unh?" Now his cane is his only friend, just barely aiding his attempt at balance as he runs his trembling hand up and down his thigh.

"Look deep."

House hitches his body toward the basket, his movements are stilted, achingly slow, like an old cripple, a helpless, ancient _gimp. _

He looks. Deep, Grips the letter opener Faulkner has handed him. His hand trembles as he holds the blade over the basket.

"Your pain is gone. Slow and easy, _breathe."_

He straightens his body, emits a long, tremulous sigh as he eases his shoulders back.

"Excellent." Faulkner crosses to House's other side. "Now, tell me, what's in the basket, Greg?"

House blinks, then peers deeper. "Blackness, emptiness, like space."

Faulkner doesn't realize he has been holding his breath until the tightness in his chest compels him to exhale. "Yes. Space. That's very good." His shoulders slump as relief takes hold. He swallows hard, giving his heart a chance to slow before he takes care of this tricky bit of business. "You will discard that opener and feel good doing it. Because it's Wilson's opener. And ridding yourself of it means ridding yourself of his hold on you."

The hand opens; the blade falls. It disturbs the Post-its, the tissue and the pen cap, hitting the bottom of the basket with a dull _thunk_ only Faulkner can hear. It's just garbage now, inconsequential. Basking in his triumph, Faulkner chuckles, keeping his eyes fixed on that blade, noting how its gleam is gone.

Dead.

A sigh of regret escapes House. He hangs his head, turns away.

"You did well, Greg. Very, very good." Faulkner pats his arm. "Go. Sit. We're almost done for the day."

He watches House hobble morosely to the chair, each uneven step bringing Faulkner's spirits up, _click, click, clack_. He follows his charge, waits for him to sit, then places a hand on his forehead and sends him to sleep.

The sight of House so pliant, so vulnerable plants some interesting ideas in Faulkner's head. It would be so easy to end this here, to expedite the original the plan. It could work. It could.

_Breathe..._

But no. Faulkner smoothes his palms along the hair on either side of his head and prepares to impart some final suggestions to the doctor...after which, he will send him on his way...

_...until tomorrow..._

_Yes._

They did good work this afternoon, made substantial progress.

He presses his hand against House's shoulder, feels the man's body relax even further at his touch.

_Control._

Faulkner grins.

Johnny will be so pleased.


	8. Cat and Mouse

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, and for all the encouraging comments. Much appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to my beta, **NaiveEve** and first reader, **Betz88** for their encouragement and brilliant suggestions.

**-8-**

"Cat and Mouse"

Wilson's restlessness is slowly starting to get to him, insinuating its tickly feelers under his skin. Paperwork waits on his desk, aching for his touch. But he can't bear to sit behind that desk, pen in hand, listening to the clock tick the time down, as if everything is as it should be.

So he strolls through the cancer ward, popping his head in here and there to look in on a few patients. Mrs. Merkham is happy to see him. At eighty-five, she is without her hair, without her left breast. Still, she knows how to wear a seductive look and make it work. In her day, Wilson speculates, she must have really been something, must have given all the boys a run for their money. He checks her chart, matches her sly wink, then ambles on to the next one and the one after that...

...until he admits to himself he is simply avoiding the real issue of this day and the past few days.

House.

House's behavior has been disturbing; something is working on him, chowing down on whatever mysterious chemistry makes up his soul. He is...changing, morphing into someone Wilson hardly knows. What is this strain pulling him down, like an insidious undertow? Such an enticing, entrancing sea, inviting him deeply, deeper down, from the blue to the green...to the black.

The thought causes Wilson to catch his breath. He pauses in mid-stride to lean against the long eggshell colored wall. Closing his eyes and counting backwards from ten to one helps to bring the calm, to get his thoughts back on track.

House's caseload has been easy. Yet tension is evident in every facial tic, in the etched lines around his mouth, his eyes.

Shoulders hunched, he sits in the rear of the diagnostic room. Hiding in shadows, watching and listening as his team runs through a differential. Occasionally he will throw them a comment that is always on the mark, amazingly helpful and insightful, belying the shape he is in.

The ease of the caseloads enables him to sit locked behind his office door for most of the day, hiding from his team, Cuddy, his ol' pal Wilson. Everyone. He is eating less, perhaps drinking more.

And Wilson can only observe this unsettling behavior through the slats in the vertical blinds.

_Nothing else you can do..._

He feels about as useless as a raggedy dishrag. Silence, helplessness and futility have formed a team to wear him down.

_Watching...and waiting..._

House's eyes wander, lighting on the walls, the windows, the vents, his hands. He is on the hunt, searching so hard for that sense of normalcy he tucked away...somewhere. Beneath those eyes are smudges of grey. Has he slept? Is insomnia another reason to haul out the worry beads?

There have been few witticisms, next to no cutting diatribes. Instead, those who attempt to engage him in work related conversation are rewarded with a few words of terse dismissal or a quick, impatient differential, if the case strikes his interest.

Otherwise, he is as about as communicative as a zombie.

Pacing the corridor, Wilson mulls over the facts: House's Vicodin intake has leveled off to a couple of pills once or twice a day. The roast beef sandwich Wilson brought him for lunch ended up in the wastebasket beneath the desk.

Wilson is in snoop mode. A man on a mission, he remains after hours to rifle through House's desk drawers, his bookshelf, his email inbox, his email trash bin, his wastebasket. This has become an obsession. He's is looking for clues, a spark of something that will throw back the tarp, reveal the facts behind this monumental decline.

Exhaustion sets in quickly; he throws up his hands and sighs, done for the day. Rubbing his hands down his face, he notices how his eyes burn. He is too tired to battle the frustration eating at his gut. He thinks about having a drink, something stronger than a beer...or perhaps something completely different: his thoughts drift to the vial of medical marijuana he has stashed in his desk.

_Somewhat tempting but...no, no, NO._

He heads for the exit but, instead, finds himself in Cuddy's office, surprised and angered by her nonchalance.

"He won't talk to me," he says, squirming at the petulance in his tone.

Cuddy raises her head slowly from her paperwork and throws him an exasperated look. "Why should you have it any different than the rest of us?"

"Something's up with him." Wilson thinks about rubbing his neck but shoves his hand in his trouser pocket instead. "Go visit him in his inner sanctum sometime."

You think I haven't ?" She taps a pen against her pen cup. "I sit across that desk from him and he won't even look at me. It's like he's lost in the ozone."

Wilson paces the length of the office, futility creeping cold through his entrails like an evil specter. "He's been like this for a week."

"Is he still seeing that therapist?" Cuddy asks.

Wilson nods. "Every day, as far as I know. He gets on his bike at the dot of five and roars off." This time he gives in, reaches his hand back for the neck rub. "I offer to cook him dinner. He just shrugs and says he has an appointment."

"Ever try to follow him?"

"No..."

Cuddy lowers her head, keeping her eyes fixed on Wilson as she twirls a rubber band between her forefingers. "Maybe you should."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The observation area of the operating theater seems as good a place as any to not have lunch.

He is not hungry. People try to feed him, offer him sustenance. Someone's been leaving him bagels every morning. Today was poppy seed, yesterday, whole wheat. He takes one bite, discards the rest. Wilson has been bringing him entire sandwiches, not just leftovers from his plate. House takes a sniff, an experimental bite, tosses the bread, cheese, meat, tomato in the trash when Wilson goes away.

But he will be ravenous later. It seems the rev of his cycle motor is a signal for his stomach to gurgle and grind with hunger. Before his appointment he will stop at Fortuna's Diner for the usual: two burgers with the works, a large order of fries, soup of the day, vanilla shake, and a slice of apple pie for dessert. His choice of food never varies. On occasion he has considered other options. Twice he thought he was ordering a turkey club, but the burger, fries, soup, shake, pie appeared before him, like old friends. He supposes he should be annoyed or spooked or...something. But somehow the familiar food is comforting. For some reason the whole situation is okay.

In the lower left hand drawer of his desk is a flask of whiskey he calls Friend Beam-o. He takes intermittent sips from it throughout the day, while ingesting just enough Vicodin to keep himself from detoxing. Occasionally, if his leg starts to ache, he escapes by putting himself in that lovely place where pain doesn't go.

It all seems fine, wonderful, spiffy...until he takes a quick look in the mirror and sees this strange, haunted guy who has somehow taken his place: a grungy old codger with an unkempt beard, sunken eyes, and pale, hollow cheeks...

_When the hell did scraggly beards become an option, old man? So not attractive on a guy who has tried for years to hone his chick magnetism. You look like Charlie Manson in a suit jacket._

And he can't seem to meet his own gaze. His reflective image offers him a fleeting glance, then looks away. He scrubs his face, towels it dry, but meeting his own eyes in the mirror? His mind's eye has other ideas, taking him outta there: to the jogging park, _zzzzzip_, a smoky bar on a Saturday night, long fingers brushing his crotch.

_When the hell was that?_

His eyes. Yeah, they look away every single time.

He can't help thinking they've witnessed something troublesome, something he can't recall. The memory tugs at him then backs off, whispering its regrets before it flies.

He wears the same shirt, same suit jacket as yesterday. Doesn't remember how long he slept last night. He rewinds yesterday in his head. The images are grainy, slightly blurred, like scenes from a well worn VHS tape. There are intermittent moments of blankness (_lost time). _Okay, can't explain those. What do you want? What...do...you...want? Think. _Went to sleep. _Check. _Woke up. _Check. _Showered for...an hour? Two? Water was nice. Warm. Rivulets. _Check. _Went to work. _Check. _Went to Faulkner's. _Check. Hold on, screech of brakes, wail of a horn. _What kept you at Faulkner's for over three hours this time? _Um...

_Yeah, um..._

Okay, stuff it. Whatever he does at Faulkner's is keeping the leg pain to a minimum, and isn't that what's most important?

_...you owe Bill Faulkner...best friend Bill...the man changed your life...eased your pain...you owe Bill Faulkner...best friend Bill...the man changed your life...eased your pain...you...owe... _

Nothing is wrong. Nothing. Sure, he might have stood under the shower for a good portion of the morning, observing how cool the droplets looked running in rivulets down the tile: some making lazy, quivering paths, others zipping along like ski racers.

_...so much you never noticed before..._

He is not up to chatting with anyone. Not his team, not Cuddy...not Wilson...

...especially not Wilson. The man is irritating. He pries, he digs. He has no business snooping around, hunting for information that is private, privileged.

..._you don't need him..._

The differentials have been a snoozefest. He sits in the rear of the room, in the shadows, listening to Cameron toss the ball to Chase to Foreman...to him. Inevitably he will toss an answer back to them that will expedite the puzzle solving process. The cases have been easy. No one can say he isn't working, isn't doing his job-

_Watch...and learn._

In the operating theater the team take their places, the surgeon, (is that Dykes? House squints) prepares to make the first incision. House tenses, his jaw works, his chair squeaks as he leans forward.

The domed lamps give off an inordinately, otherworldly brightness. They illuminate the patient's stomach, which is as smooth and as sickeningly white as the belly of a beached whale. He pictures the arms and legs, torso and head laid out neatly side by side (_cut_, amputated with surgical skill) on a metal table...somewhere, leaving the doctors to do their worst on the intestinal blockage.

The image is pretty damn horrific, terrifying in its detail. So why does it make him feel so

_good._

Dykes approaches the table, light glinting off the scalpel as he raises it in a gloved hand. His team drifts around him like apparitions hungry for blood.

House draws a breath...

_Breathe_

...right hand drifts to jacket pocket...

Someone has pulled up a chair next to him. In his peripheral vision he sees Dead Kid's dad, strawberry blonde tress covering one eye, lips moving out of sync with his mystical mantra, his curse

_...think of us when you hurt. When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart... _

Scalpel tip touches skin...

...House draws the instrument from his pocket. Cool metal, cold palm...

Dead Kid's dad opens his mouth, draws in a sharp, anticipatory breath.

Incision is made,

_Incision is made..._

A line of scarlet mars the perfect white, the cooling skin.

...the fleshy part of his palm shows its worth. In a moment his wrist and jacket sleeve are saturated

The team goes about their business oblivious to...

Dead Kid's dad laughter fills the observation room as...

...House stares in hazy wonder at the scalpel in his hand, how the scarlet shine melds with the shimmer of shiver. His mouth drops open, pulse pounding, throbbing in his other hand, his bleeding hand...as

...droplets of scarlet dot the cool white tile...

He shouldn't be finding it beautiful, should be re-ally worried about how euphoria is taking him on a slow ride to the moon...

_the moon...Man in the Moon...smiling down...taking him in...spitting him out..._

Shallow laughter takes a tour around the room, once twice before abandoning this place for parts unknown as...

...House rises, staggers against the window, forehead pressing plexi-glass. Down below, now appearing in the circular theater, that stomach is split wide open, mysteries revealed. The surgeon's scalpel shimmers, glimmers, _glows_ under fluorescence. White gloves, red blood.

_Relax...drift... _

The scalpel is in the fist that presses against the window. He can see the sharp edge poking from between his thumb and forefinger. Of course there is blood on its tip

_beautiful_

just as there is blood pooling around his left sneaker.

For one interesting moment, the world spins grey.

_someone will find you here...take you...put you away...no more best friend Bill...no burgers...no...sharp edges...everything soft, pliant...white walls...white walls..._

He blinks as the activity in the operating room blurs, then sharpens to a crystal clarity. For a moment he is the one on the table, floating in the ozone, his stomach cut, his insides spilling out for all the kids to play with.

_No._

Bloody hand in suit jacket side pocket. It will hide the evidence until he can patch it up. It was an accident, okay? Dropped a glass cut, cut, cut my hand. I'm okay, I'm fine. See? I stitched it up without any help from you. Bye.

He hangs his head. _Breathes._

Bye...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Allison ambles along, thinking that the mall is much too crowded for a Thursday afternoon. She works hard to keep Bridget and Ariel in her sights. Fortunately she was able to leave Marie at the neighbors to play with five year old Erika, and Tide, the Chihuahua.

The girls rush on ahead. There is a sense of self importance in how they hustle along, so glad not to have to be seen walking with their mom. Gah, how uncool. With an expertise befitting Olympic champions, they weave around mothers with strollers, teens just hangin' out, security guards staring wistfully into the distance. Neon lights burn brightly, happily, designs spinning like pinwheels, forcing gaiety down the throats of the masses.

Allison is almost out of breath. Keeping up with youth is a difficult endeavor. She wishes she could feel an iota of their excitement. But the swirling lights and the retro muzak only serve to irritate her. She would rather be home. Really. Her head is swimming, filled to near capacity with travel plans, knights in armor, and a beautiful blue haired girl who just happens to be dead.

Gee, gosh. What else might the fates hand out to make this afternoon that much more wonderful?

She reported her 'findings' to Davalos: be on the lookout for a big man with big ears, who has a penchant for knives and uses his victim's blood to offer farewell kisses...

...just like in Minnesota.

And then there's Johnny, the only solid name she was able to dredge up from the encounter. Johnny was elsewhere. Minnesota, perhaps, keeping the home fires burning until the big eared, kissy-poo soldier comes marching home.

Maybe. Davalos is on the case. But there will be many Johnnys with questionable records in Minnesota. Cross referencing a Johnny with a big eared serial killer might be a tough call. More information is needed. Maybe sleep with a side order of vigorous dreaming will bring an answer.

Maybe.

The girls reach their destination: _Twinkles House of Trinkets. _It is the coolest store in the whole entire world and universe and galaxy, according to Bridget, and _the_ spot to buy jewelry and lipstick for their trip east, according to Ariel. Kissy poos to the mall manager who decided to place a bench in front of this magnificent shop of all shops. She must be a mom, herself, Allison surmises, a weary sigh escaping her as she sits. She sets her purse on her lap and manages a quick wave to the girls before they hurry inside.

People-watching will keep her occupied. She wishes she'd had the foresight to grab a cup of coffee before settling in for the long haul. Between the girls figuring out their finances, finding just the right plastic jeweled earrings to go with the perfect wrist baubles, Allison figures she'll be on this bench for the better part of an hour.

So she watches the shoppers. The black, white, tall and short, happy, tired, bored, sad, a little combo of either or. The more she watches, the more she begins to 'get' these folks, which is not always fun. But she can't just turn it off, not when there are so many of them crowding her, stifling her...

Here comes a tired, no, exhausted, twenty something mom, pushing her twins in their first class, primo, two hundred dollar stroller.

_Grandmama...visiting for the weekend...gotta find...right tablecloth to go with...napkins...or Grandmama will have a fit... did I bring you up not to set a nice table...to not keep a proper home?_ _Damnherdamnherdamnherdamnher...die..._

Allison needs to squeeze her eyes shut against the force of the woman's thoughts: the smothering wave of anger and frustration. She bids the mom a silent 'so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good luck', the moment she senses her moving farther down the endless row of shops.

It's safe now, she thinks, then squints as her eyes adjust to the brightness. She scrubs a hand through her hair, turns her head and rears back, surprised to find she is no longer alone. A teenage boy with strawberry blonde hair and intense green eyes sits to her left. At first she thinks he is wearing a white robe or toga. But then she recognizes his garb as a hospital gown. His calves are smooth, hairless; he is barefoot. His eyes bore into hers.

He is dead.

"Hi," she says, chancing a smile.

His frown deepens. "He's coming."

After a hasty look around, Allison asks, "Who?"

"You're not paying attention," he whines. "You'll miss him."

"Tell me where to look."

"You'll know when you see him. Then you'll thank me. Then you'll want me to come around again to help you."

"Sure."

"You'll need me. On the train, and in New York."

She shakes her head. "I'm not going on a tr-"

He pounds his fist against the back of the bench. "He's here!"

A sudden shot of panic causes a flurry in her gut, a tremor in her hands. Swallowing hard, her vision swims, immersing her in rainbows of motion, as the bench swings up...and back. Her temples pound and pound in perfect sync with the runaway beat of her heart, as her vision clears enough for her to see...

_...he's here._

She might not have given him a second look if the green-eyed kid hadn't thrown her a heads up. The guy is trying hard to melt into the throng, keeping with the flow, never deviating from the pace. But his cheeks are blood dappled, making him look like a freckled Raggedy Andy doll. The front of his yellow and green Aloha shirt boasts scarlet spatters, the evidence of his handiwork.

_...and nobody knows but you..._

Nobody knows but her. Another day, another vision.

For a big guy, he cuts a non-descript picture. Yes, he's blonde and tall with a ruddy complexion. His hair is long, pulled back into a ponytail. Yes, his ears do stick out. But, still, he blends in. This is one of his skills.

Her phone is somehow in her hand. It is easy to catch a side view of him as his attention shifts toward the window of _The Men's Factory_. The crowd parts almost mystically, magically. Now. _Now. _She has the perfect photo opportunity. He eyes a grey tweed suit jacket, as she presses the telephoto button, focusing, moving in, as she...

_clicks_

...and gets the shot right before an elderly man hobbles by, obstructing her view. Maybe the click was too loud. Maybe the guy's senses are too keen. Something disturbed Aloha Shirt's reverie, causing his head to swing every which way, like an elephant shaking off the rain.

_Did he see you?_

No. _Twinkles _is two stores away from _The Men's Factory._ The click could have come from anywhere. It was too soft to be heard from such a distance, anyway. Besides, anyone could have snapped a photo. So many people milling about. Could have been anyone. No need to worry. No need...

Regardless, she ducks her head, presses the speed dial for Scanlon, listens to the burr of his phone, silently curses his voice as it tells her to leave a message.

_What to say? What to do?_

She could approach mall security. But the guards here were either young guys scouring their assigned areas for potential hotties or old guys who would rather be napping in a backyard hammock. They could strong arm a shoplifter (maybe), but a serial killer? Their inexperience would glare as brightly as klieg lights; they would panic, spook the guy into running away and possibly leaving the state. No, Allison wants kissy poo Aloha Shirt to stay put.

She leaves a message for Scanlon, phones Devalos, who tells her to email him the photo and sit tight and not do anything else. He will send the police to search the area. She took a chance taking that picture.

_What if he saw you?_

He didn't. He is more concerned with leaving now, raising his head, his eyes darting here and there. She can see further evidence of his activities: a spray of scarlet in his straw colored tresses, on his kissy poo lips. Finally, he steps lively and takes a brisk serpentine path past stragglers and window shoppers. Halfway down the aisle, he swerves toward the down escalator and is gone.

The trail of blood only she can see marks his movement, marks him. Shoppers stomp through it, Alexandra is here, sloshing, kicking, _dancing_ around in it like Gene Kelly in _Singin' In the Rain. No. _She presses her fists against her eyes to rid herself of the vision.

"Mom?" A small hand pats her shoulder. She slips on her best mommy smile, opening her eyes to see Bridget's funny little pudgy face staring into hers. "I need another dollar for a really beautiful necklace."

"How many have you already bought, Bridge?" she asks, glancing at the bag dangling from Bridget's wrist.

"Seven."

"You only had ten dollars."

"I know. Ariel let me borrow two. I told her you'd pay her back."

"I...see." Allison digs in her purse and passes Bridget another five. "Go get a few more necklaces."

"Really?" The little girl's eyes light up as bright as the _Twinkles _sign.

Allison feels a prick of tears behind her eyes. She wills it away and widens her grin. "Really."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Where the hell are you going, House?" Wilson scowls at the road sign bidding him a hearty _Welcome To Trenton,_ lifting his middle finger in response as he races by. He's been tailing House's orange Repsol from a fairly safe distance for miles and, so far, it doesn't appear House has noticed. But you never know. House could be enjoying this game of cat and mouse; he could be leading Wilson into some kind of ridiculous trap. Or he could be so focused on getting where he's going, he might not realize Wilson has been on his tail since leaving the hospital parking lot.

Either way, Wilson doubts he will come away from this knowing any more about his friend's motives than he did before.

One thing is for certain, House is in a bad way, a terrible way. He is in such sorry shape, Cuddy is considering forcing him to take a week off to do whatever it takes to get his head together. Her idea for Wilson to follow him, find out what he could, before taking the matter to a more official level was supposed to be a last resort. But after House's little mishap at lunchtime, they had no other immediate option. Sedation and psychiatric evaluation were considered, then discarded for now (filed away as Emergency Plan Two, Cuddy announced morosely before sending Wilson on his mission).

But House has a therapist. He sees him every...single...day.

So why would House cut himself? That ugly, deep gouge could have only been made with a sharp instrument like a knife or... scalpel. Plenty of those to be had in a hospital, eh? Of course, House swears it was an accident but Wilson knows what a crock that is. The cut was too straight, the slice too deep into the fleshy part of the palm, for it to have been anything but self inflicted. Not for a minute did Wilson believe the 'oops, I dropped a glass and it broke and a shard embedded itself in my hand' crap House had tried to hand him.

Wilson wants to believe, to give his friend the benefit. Keeping that cycle in sight, he runs through a half dozen logical reasons as to what really happened here. But only one truly makes sense.

He almost lost the Repsol in a jam of vehicles by the last exit ramp. But when the bike pulled away from the mess and roared off, Wilson took the cue to be aware. _Be very aware_.

Sure. It's obvious now. House knows he is being followed, knows Wilson is on the case. And House damn well doesn't like it.

_Well, too fuckin' bad, buddy. _

Wilson leans forward, pushing the Volvo as hard as it will go to keep up.

_Only one reason truly makes sense._

Had House been aiming for his wrist...and missed?

The very real possibility causes Wilson's stomach to do back flips...

...as the Repsol swerves hard onto the next exit ramp, trying in vain to lose the Volvo and its very persistent driver.


	9. Taught By Experts

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and enjoying.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to my beta **NaiveEve** and first reader **Betz88.**

**-9-**

"Taught By Experts"

Heck. There is nothing like coincidence, happenstance and a fortuitous alignment of stars to raise the spirits. When the elements come together in just the right way, you feel, _yess_, maybe there is a method to all the madness, maybe there is that glorious reason to _be._ Allison mulls over the non-science of fate, how deftly it plays its hand in these situations, taking no credit, getting little respect. That's okay because _she_ knows, _she _believes.

The fact that Ariel and Bridget are actually divvying up their _Twinkles_ bounty, giving Marie enough to keep her smiling at the dinner table, is even more cause for celebration.

Maybe, Allison thinks, she and Joe really did do something right along the way. She gives Daddy Joe a knowing look, the kind parents have shared every day for decades, centuries, eons. Their little brood is brimming with excitement; the kids are growing up.

Oh, and then there is one additional detail that makes this good day that much better, the absolute pièce de résistance: big eared slasher with the penchant for gaudy shirts was apprehended, snagged by Detective Scanlon, four plainclothesmen, two uniforms and three security guards in the mall parking lot, shortly after Allison's call. Aloha Shirt, whose name is Curtis Weir, was in the process of stowing his purchase from _Classy Cutlery _in his trunk when he was read his rights, cuffed and shoved into the back of a police cruiser. His grin could only be described as 'shit eating'. Was he ecstatic that his spree was over? Did he have a nasty little secret? Was he really and truly insane? There are no answers. Not yet, anyway.

Inside the _Classy Cutlery _bag were five carving knives, seven steak knives and a smattering of paring knives, all housed inside a black velvet box. Guess Curt's old blades were getting pretty dull...

_Lovely._

Questioning will commence tomorrow. Allison will make sure to be on hand to observe and perhaps participate in the meet and greet, throwing in some queries of her own.

_Who's Johnny, Curt?_

She hears the words fall from her lips, could swear she actually said them. But the girls continue to gush over their accessories; Joe is pouring the milk.

_Nobody knows but you, Allison..._

She is more than overjoyed to be leaving for New York in two days.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A song is stuck in his head, a goddamn song reeling and rocking around his grey matter. He doesn't like it; doesn't need it. It is one of those songs House would play over and over, probably warble it loudly, if he was drunk enough.

_Shut UP!_

All Wilson wants is to keep the Repsol in sight, to find out where its rider has been disappearing every night for the past two weeks.

"Is that so much to ask?" he hisses, leaning forward, his knuckles paste white against the dark blue steering wheel.

The Volvo and the bike are speeding now, hovering a good five miles per hour over the legal limit. It is a dangerous way to travel these city streets. School is out; the late afternoon is balmy. Kids are roaming around, hanging by the five and dime, wandering across the road like they own it.

_Shit. Shee-it!_

Wilson has had to slam on the breaks for: a red light, a stop sign, three kids playing tag, and an elderly woman who didn't think to look both ways before she stepped into the road. The Volvo's back tires screamed in protest each time he stopped short and pounded the wheel. The Repsol jutted ahead; the rev of its motor and smoke from the exhaust seemed the ultimate mockery.

And all the while, Chuck Berry assured Wilson is his ragged rock and roll growl that 'you can't catch me'.

_Omigod._

We're stopping. Yeah. Congratulations. We've made it to...a diner.

A diner. This is where House goes to meet his doctor? A goddamn diner? Or is this just the appetizer before the main course?

House parks as close to the entrance as he can, eases himself off the bike, removes his helmet and hefts in under his arm. After snagging his cane from its holder behind the seat, he turns and shoots Wilson a glare...

...so chock full of anger, of anguish of...hate, it seems as lethal as a tornado wrapped in barbed wire. With each violent whirl, Wilson feels himself being sliced a little deeper, the sharp edges raking through skin and bone, muscle and tissue, closing in on his vitals.

It hurts.

He scowls, runs a hand along his upper arm, expecting to feel a warm, sticky moisture saturating his sleeve.

House's movements are halting, his disability even more glaring, accentuated by his stooped shoulders, the tremor in his hands. He _step-thumps_ his way to the wheelchair ramp, head bowed as he totters up the incline. There he stops, turns again, tap...tap...taps the tip of the cane against the diner's stucco exterior. Each _tap_ is like a gunshot, sticking it to his friend in short, smart little bursts. _Come on_, he seems to say with those eyes, with that lopsided stance. _Come on over here. Let's get ready to fuckin' rumble_.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Seated behind his desk, Bill Faulkner immerses himself in the familiar; focuses on the whisper of cool air through the vents, the framed watercolors, the bright and oh, so pretty daffodils in the vase. _Inhale, exhale, deep and slow. _He senses a settling inside himself, like he is a stone drifting gently to the bottom of still water.

_Inhale...let it out...relax..._

The news was very bad, _very _bad. Curtis Weir's arrest is the worst thing that could have happened now. So unfortunate. The sessions with Greg are going so well. Leading him to the brink of that deep, dark abyss has been such fun.

But if Curtis, the volatile and unstable sociopath, decides to relate his life story, the party will be over. Johnny will undoubtedly suffer. He and Sarah will rate fugitive status. By rights they should be in jail now. But luck has stuck by them for a long time. Unfortunately, luck might have shot its load, run its course, waving bye, bye over its shoulder as it hops the next train home. Faulkner clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Just when it looked like John's running days were over, this had to happen.

_Another stickety wicket, Billy._

Thankfully, John's actions didn't point to Faulkner, not directly, anyway. But if his own luck turns sour, Faulkner will feel the ripples of John's impulsiveness. If the ripples churn and roil themselves into a tsunami, the wave will eventually encompass his little part of Jersey and drown him.

Despite these unsettling facts, he remains calm, placid as the water, deeply immersed as that stone. The PC and webcam are ready, set up against the wall on the right side of the room. Faulkner averts his eyes from the unsightly, yet necessary, additions to his carefully laid out office. True eyesores they are: the black metal tripod with its oversized spider-like legs , the glass lens calmly observing all the wrong, all the guilt he should be feeling but doesn't.

He will have to work more quickly now, bring his sessions with the doctor to their inevitable end. As if to emphasize this point, he shakes the vial of Dr. House's new..._medication, _ordered from the pharmacy today. With a gentle chuckle he sets it down before him. One thing he will not do is give up because of this setback, this ripple in the calm.

His cell phone burrs in his shirt pocket. With a sigh, he pulls it out, flicks it open and greets Johnny without even checking the caller ID.

John is upset, sobbing in that hushed, hoarse way of his. Faulkner listens as he always listens. In the days after John bought the pistol and actually used it, Faulkner would listen for hours.

_What's that song? Faulkner scribbles his mental meanderings on a legal pad as Johnny continues to babble and weep. The song said...something about a stranger coming from the east, lawbook in his hand..._

All his training, his years of treating troubled psyches did not prepare Faulkner for Johnny's feat of courageous idiocy. To this day, Faulkner couldn't believe Johnny had it in him. Talking out your rage is much different than acting on it. John was always a great talker. But Danielle's suicide changed him, gave him a different slant on life...and death.

_...Gene Pitney. Big hit. Movie theme, right? James Stewart film. Yeah._

Johnny worries about staying put, worries the police will break down the door, take him away. He didn't hurt anyone this time, just drove the car. No matter, John. Can you spell accessory? Faulkner tells him he should have thought of all this before joining Weir in his Minnesota escapades. You play, you pay.

..._yeah, Pitney sang it with such sincerity. That line about the two shots ringing out that made Liberty fall..._

Johnny Moray, Johnny, Johnny, Jack, Jack. He really should have picked a better name to use as a cover. Faulkner thought the name Johnny Moray was much too similar to Jack Moriarity for comfort. But Johnny, Johnny, Jack, Jack was a bullheaded sonofabitch. Couldn't tell him anything. Never listened. Now look at him. Now look.

..._was an eerie case of predestination in a pop song. Faulkner gives a virtual finger snap of triumph. Now he remembers. "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance". That's it. He scribbles the title in bold letters across the page. Despite his worry, he heaves a silent little sigh. It could be Johnny's theme song if the title were changed..._

...to "The Man Who Shot Gregory House."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson follows behind House, who is limping down the aisle at a good clip. It is obvious he is searching, scoping out a specific table, _his _seat. There-over by the window, two women sit, finishing their chicken sandwiches. The older one's silver hair is pulled back into a severe chignon. Her blouse is mauve, her skirt a deep violet. She looks like a teacher or some sort of administrator, while her auburn haired companion could be her secretary or student. Younger and somewhat attractive, she is clad in dress pants and a white scoop neck top. Immersed in their food and conversation, the women fail to notice when House stops across the aisle from them, resting his hip against the edge of a vacant table. His wounded hand is set atop the head of his cane. The lower half of the hand is wrapped up pretty good, lots of gauze and tape. He doesn't appear to be in pain but is anxious to be seated-in _his_ seat. His eyes are blue-grey chips, staring the women down as his lips twitch, then settle into a somber bloodless line.

He waits.

"House," Wilson hisses, using two fingers to touch House's upper arm. "There are plenty of other-"

One good jerk of his shoulder sends Wilson's hand away.

Tossing a furtive glance around the room, Wilson sees they haven't attracted any attention yet. But they will.

The two women are yakking, checking over the dessert list on back of the menu as...

...House shifts his weight from good leg to bad to good.

"Maybe we should-"

"That's _my _damn table." Not a trace of the old silky sarcasm in that tone. He is just angry, gruff and mean.

The waitress is harried, wielding a tray, muttering an apology as she brushes by them. House grunts and takes a stiff step closer to the gabbing gals.

"Stay here. I'll...fix it." Wilson points at him and for a moment, House is _House_. He gets it, raising his brows and taking a step back.

There is something to be said for a beguiling smile, a boyish tilt of the head, a warm, open gaze. Wilson knows how to use them to his best advantage. He gives a smart little bow as he coos, "Excuse me, ladies."

The women look up in mid gabbery. The older of the two glares at Wilson like he has two heads, but the younger one returns the smile.

"My friend and I usually sit at this booth when we come here." He shifts his shoulders, pulls out his best little boy pout. "He's...not feeling too well...a little upset..."

"He drunk? On something? Looks like one of those hippy guys to me." The older one lifts a brow, sips her water.

"He's just..." Wilson turns to look at House, who now seems entranced by an oblong patch of sunlight on the linoleum. "...uh..." He smiles at the women again. "I'll give you twenty dollars...each if you move to another table."

Administrator's green eyes widen.

"Don't be silly," The younger woman pipes up; her look is sympathetic. "We'll move. Come on, Elma." She gathers her purse and jacket and slides out of the booth.

"I'll take the money." Elma sits firm. She dabs her mouth with her napkin, then holds out her palm.

"Elma..."

"Haven't had dessert yet. I'd just as soon stay put."

"That's _my_ seat." House steps up beside Wilson and stomps his cane against the floor.

"Now, mister." Elma makes a commanding gimme motion at Wilson with her outstretched fingers. "Before _he _makes a scene and embarrasses the hell out of you."

Wilson's smile is replaced by a knowing sneer. He digs his wallet from his back trouser pocket and comes up with the goods.

She snaps the bill from his fingers, stows it in her purse, then smiles at her friend. "Desserts on me, Tina. " She begins to slide out of the booth, then pauses to look coquettishly at Wilson. The look does not suit her. "Could you move your charge out of the way?"

"He's not in your way." Tina brushes past House and Wilson to grab her friend by the arm. "You're insufferable, so incredibly uncompassionate. I cannot believe you did that."

"What?" Elma stands, smoothing her skirt, smirking.

"The man is obviously sick and you take his friend's money?" she says, leading Elma down the aisle to find another table. "I cannot believe you..."

"Boo!" House calls after them. "Boooo!"

"Sit." Wilson says, motioning for House to move into the booth.

Glowering, House eases himself onto the seat, shifts his body closer to the window, setting his cane and helmet beside him. Dust motes dance inside shafts of sun, washing over him like silver spotlights, accentuating his pallor, the unruly growth of beard. His hair sticks out in tufts. When was the last time he'd had it cut? Moving in slow motion, he leans his chin against his palm and stares outside as his eyes...go...blank.

"House?"

"Good afternoon."

The waitress has arrived. Pretty, young, dark hair, shining cheeks. Wilson suddenly wonders how those plum red lips might feel moving under his.

Leaning over, she gathers up Elma and Tina's dirty dishes and launches into her cheery patter. "My name is Molly and I'll be your server."

"Mol-ly?" House murmurs, his eyes on the parking lot.

"Hi, Greg." She stacks the last plate on her pile and looks at Wilson. "Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"I'll have an iced tea," Wilson says.

"Be right back."

He raises a forefinger. "What about..."

"Mol-ly knows." House squints into the waning daylight.

_Come here often? Obviously..._

Molly returns almost immediately with an iced tea for Wilson, a Coke for House. She takes Wilson's order, then heads to the kitchen. Wilson doesn't ask. Doesn't mention the fact there are two of them but only one order on her pad.

They sit in silence as glasses clink, silverware tings. House runs his fingers lightly over the bandage, gauze and tape.

"How's your hand?"

Silence. A tractor trailer rumbles by. House blinks again.

"House?"

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Okay, this should be interesting." Wilson leans forward, cocks his head. "Why not?"

House bites his lower lip, runs a finger down the aluminum window frame. "Because you poke your nose into my business. A real friend respects his friend's property, maintains a courteous distance."

"Are you kidding me?"

"A real friend knows when a friend wants to be left alone. A real friend minds his own business." House rubs his beard, squints at the shadows settling over the parked cars. "That is what a real friend does. You don't. I don't want to talk to you."

_Well, howdy stranger_. The haggard looking guy hunched over his soda glass is not House. It couldn't be. Some other sad soul has taken over House's body, reading this strange riot act in a chilling monotone.

_I don't want to talk to you._

Those words spill out flat, expressionless, like an automaton reading off a teleprompter. It's as if he's been instructed, put through the paces. Taught by experts.

"House...who is this therapist you're seeing?"

"_He's _my friend. He gets rid of my pain."

The idea is ludicrous, especially coming from a physician who is rarely civil to his own patients. "Your therapist is _not_ your friend, House. He's your doctor. He's supposed to treat what ails you-"

A fist is raised, a glare thrown like a dagger. "He...is...my...friend!" House's fist meets the table, causing the silverware and glasses to shake and clatter. A few diners look up from their meals, then look away fast.

_Naw...you don't want to get involved in this._

"What is his name?" Wilson says softly, thinking maybe if he asks real nice...

"I don't want to talk to you."

_Round and round and round..._

The food arrives, which is a cue for the automaton to take House over completely. Usually he garners great pleasure from the act of chowing down. Each bite is savored, accompanied by grunts of satisfaction and snatches of conversation. But now...?

_What the hell? _

Wilson can only stare, dumbfounded, as House attacks the two burgers, fries, chicken noodle soup, and vanilla shake, stuffing his face like a man who hasn't eaten for a week. Forgetting his turkey sandwich, Wilson studies House's every chew and swallow, every flick of those vacant eyes, and soon notices something else odd: a pattern. House ravages his food using a pattern that never alters: burger, burger, fries, soup, shake. Burger, burger, fries, soup, shake.

Chew, chew, swallow, chomp, chomp, swallow, sip, slurp.

Rinse and repeat.

"Is...that good?"

No response.

_I don't want to talk to you..._

House keeps his eyes on the quickly dwindling food; only occasionally will his gaze drift to the slice of pie, waiting patiently off to the side.

_A reward for the good boy who cleaned his plate like he was told. A sweet, sticky prize for the kid who ate it all-ll up._

Now the sight of the turkey sandwich, augmented by pickle and slaw, makes Wilson's stomach turn. He cringes, stares at House, whose beard is dotted with crumbs, bits of French fries, and a soup noodle.

This is a nightmare, a foray into _The Twilight Zone_.

House's plate is empty now, completely clean. Not a crumb, fry or stripe of ketchup remains. He's onto the pie, shoving it into his face, as savage as a cannibal, joyless as monk.

_You can call Cuddy, have her send some orderlies, bring House in for observation...because...why? Um...he ate a hearty meal? Nope. Ain't gonna wash._

House downs the final piece, the very last crumb, pushes the plate away with his thumb. His eyes move across the table, his frown deepening at the sight of Wilson's untouched food.

"You want it? Be my guest." Wilson rubs his brow, tosses a resigned wave at his plate. "Take it home for later."

"You should eat," House tells him. "You'll be hungry, like I was."

"I think I'm full from bearing witness to your cholesterol adventure." Wilson fixes him with a sorry stare. "Why don't you skip your appointment? We'll go back to your place, watch "Hang 'em High" or...whatever. Have a few beers..."

House's jaw works as he scans the empty plates. After a moment, he gives a satisfied sniff, chugs the rest of his cola, then grabs his cane and helmet, and pushes himself out of the booth.

"Where are you going?" Wilson wonders if the tremor in his tone is noticeable.

"You know where I'm going. You just said..."

"I know," Wilson says, "I know, it's just that-"

House stands by the edge of the table, taps the wooden tip of his cane against one sneaker...and reaches forward. Wilson doesn't rear back, doesn't protest as two shaky fingers pluck a pen from his shirt pocket. House holds the pen up to light, turns it this way...and that.

"You could've asked," Wilson says, a shimmer of humor in his tone. "I would have-"

House shoves the pen into his jacket pocket as he meets Wilson's gaze...

...and for one glorious moment, the clouds part to reveal _House_ in those eyes: frightened and confused, like a little boy lost. "If you're thinking of following me," he says, "don't."

_Okay. _Wilson stares at his hands, presses them flat against the table as he arranges his thoughts in ragged little piles. He raises one finger, lifts his eyes as he opens his mouth to speak...

...but House is already gone.


	10. The Last Time

**A/N: **Thanks for reading/commenting/enjoying.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88 **for their help and encouragement

**-10-**

**"**The Last Time"

Allison isn't about to be the only one packing suitcases. At breakfast, she made the announcement that everyone will be responsible for their own stuff (except for Marie, who is too little and will need her sisters' help).

Ariel and Bridget are old enough to decide what they need to bring for the week's stay. It will be warm; June weather in New York is warm like Phoenix, except more humid and muggy. Bridget said she didn't want to be mugged and could they please not go. Ariel explained with a touch of exasperation that muggy meant hot and stifling, and really, really uncomfortable. And if Bridget didn't want to go, she could stay at the McKendry's and play with Tide the Chihuahua all week. Marie clapped her hands and Allison stifled a laugh and declared 'that's enough of that'.

Joe will pack for himself; he is good that way. He knows what kind of day she had, the trauma, the visions, the glimpse of the perp's twisted psyche, which will take more than a day to leave her.

Now the kids are busy in their room; Joe is washing the dinner dishes. She can hear Ariel and Bridget opening drawers, chattering to Marie, who is most likely clutching Bunny, looking on in awe. The girls paw through shirts and shorts, socks and underwear. Those drawers will need some straightening after this, Allison muses, letting her eyes close, as she lazes on the sofa, feet up, evening news a drone, a buzzing fly in this dark tunnel...leading to...

_...a train car. A pretty darn exquisite one. These are not your ordinary, everyday railroad accommodations. Allison gives the car a leisurely once over, noticing the gilt edge fixtures around the doors, the wood paneled walls, polished to a high sheen. The plush maroon carpet is embellished with tiny gold starbursts. There is a faint smell of cigars, a more prominent, richer scent of leather seats. These seats, she thinks, running her hand along the top of one, are more like easy chairs: so soft, high backed, each one the color of a Maui sunset._

_The car rumbles and clickety-clacks beneath her new red shoes with the spiked heels. The color goes nicely with the scarlet dress she wears. It is stylish, urbane, with a sweeping hemline that tickles her calves. It is like nothing she has ever owned. But she wouldn't mind having it hanging in her closet. Although, when would she ever wear it? It is too fancy for work or for a trip to the mall. Maybe for Halloween? Kids would get a kick out of it. Joe would, well Joe would like it a lot. A possibility...,_

_The train squeals to a stop, causing her to sway and grab onto a seatback to keep her balance. Her wide brimmed hat tips over her eyes. She sends her fingers on an exploratory tour and finds the brim to be velvet. Red velvet, she assumes._

_Doors slide smoothly open, with hardly a sound, none of that grating or squeaking you get on everyday, ordinary trains. Hmmph. Allison nods appreciatively, impressed with this first class operation._

_The first passenger is the same young man she encountered at the mall; the same kid who wanted to join her on the train. Well, looks like he gets his wish. He's got that James Dean, Rebel Without a Cause moodiness down just right: unsmiling, smoldering green eyes with a faraway look. Girls would swoon over this one. His lank, pretty hair drifts over his brow as he saunters to the rear of the car. As he moves, his thin hospital gown swishes around his legs, certainly not as flowingly as her scarlet dress. But she figures he is brooding too much to care. He appears to have more on his mind than what apparel he's been forced to endure. He falls into the last seat in the car, flopping his feet up on the chair facing him...and shoots a glare her way. _

_She considers engaging him in a little tête-à-tête, when a loud, metallic clanking sounds behind her, interrupting her plans._

_Clank-CLINK, clank-CLINK, clank-CLINK._

_Metal boots shuffle over the meticulously maintained carpeting. It is the knight. Her knight. Lancelot._

_His gait is uneven, halting; his head is bowed, shoulders hunched. It's as if some unseen entity is riding him, adding significant weight to his armor, hampering his progress, debilitating him further._

_He puts his full weight on his jewel encrusted sword as he stops to rest. His armor squeaks and squeals like a hurt cat as he lifts his head to search for a seat._

_And as he makes his decision, the doors slide closed behind him; he grunts as he clink-clanks across the aisle to settle in by the window. Resting the sword against the wall, he leans his head back and places his gloved hand over his visor. That's when she notices the bloodstains tainting the underside of the glove and the lower portion of his sleeve. She wants to ask if he's been in battle, if he is okay. These questions will be boxed up with all the others, set aside for when her knight decides to communicate: if that time ever comes._

_His armor is almost entirely black now, except for a few grey smudges and tiny pits of rust dotting the landscape. She wonders about the holes in his suit: one near the top of his shoulder and the other at the thigh of his right leg, Allison imagines small charges clinging to the metal, setting off two small but powerful explosions. She can just about see the patch of suit jacket by the shoulder; a circle of worn denim by the thigh. It is clear that Lancelot has been through a terrible trial, a traumatic event. She feels a renewed determination to convince him to remove the visor, talk to her, tell her his story. _

_She draws closer, eases herself into the seat across from him, but is pulled from her reverie by the malevolent look of the boy in the rear of the car, as she..._

...gasps and jerks upright. Joe's hand is on her shoulder; he is smiling that knowing, 'it's dreamtime again' smile. He tells her the kids are asleep, asks if she might be coming to bed too? She grunts a sleepy assent and lets him take her arm and lead her down the hall to their room, to lie down, to dream some more.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

House sits on his gradually cooling cycle, eyeing the stone and stucco exterior of the _Sedgewick Arms. _Usually he doesn't give the building a second thought, so anxious is he to get to Faulkner's office, to lose himself for an hour or two or three. But today something is preying on him. He needs to think. For some strange reason, he feels compelled to get his thoughts in order. Not an easy task, since each internal query is met with stubborn resistance.

Reasoning, deducing, chopping away the perfunctory and getting to the heart of the matter are his forte. If he had a whiteboard and a team, he would be all set.

_Wilson would've have listened, acted as your team, but you probably didn't give him a chance. Actually, you don't quite remember what went on in the diner, do you? Except for the memory of stuffing a ridiculous amount of food in your face, it's all a blur. Too bad. You do know he's concerned about you. Doesn't that make you think something's a little...wrong here? That something in your head might need a little fixing? Wilson cares. You could have told him about this oddball world you've been tossed into. Maybe he could have... _

Pain sets its sights on him, aims straight and gets him good in the right thigh. All thoughts of Wilson take a hike...replaced instantly by

_...chowtime...best friend Bill...his ideas...what he says goes...best friend Bill...never lead you wrong... _

The throb in his thigh gradually fades. _Breathe. _Turning his head, he faces the road home. Just hop on the bike, rev it up and you're on your way. The road leads to Princeton. Home. Safety. It would be easy. So simple. Rev it up. One hand grips the ignition key and...

...suddenly he is inside a vacuum, gasping, wheezing, his chest hitching. Then, like an afterthought, pain grips his leg again. Black dots dip, dance and dive on the pavement, on the white lines dividing the road in two.

_Focus, Greg. Tha-at's it. Look at the building. Best friend Bill is waiting..._

_Breathe._

Heart beat slows, time ticks and ticks and tocks. It is alright...alright. He is safe now. Yeah. He removes the key from the ignition, stuffs it deep inside his jeans pocket, then considers how good his hands feel in these black leather driving gloves. _This_ is real. It's like he has been shaken out of a stupor. He smells their good leather smell meshing with the scent of his sweat. _Heady...alive_. He smiles, removing his helmet, letting the breeze riffle through his damp, matted hair.

Flexing his fingers, he savors the gloves' supple, sturdy feel. They protect his hands from the elements, giving the gash in his palm additional armor against pain and infection. He blinks, runs two gloved fingers up the length of his throat...and gently back. Abruptly, his thoughts shift to the individual aftertastes playing on the back of his tongue, the cloying sweetness of the apple pie, greasy meaty onion taste of the burger, slippery noodles, tiny bites of chicken...

..._so much food...so much heavy food...makes you logy...drowsy...in need of a little nap..._

and maybe that's the point

(_breathe...drift...)_

Cars rush by, he sways, realizes the shadows are deepening,

_(you're late...he's waiting, waiting...best friend Bill...you owe him...)_

Above the building, the sky is a mass of cotton wool clouds: bruised looking, purplish black, huddled together, swallowing up the daylight.

He grabs his helmet and cane, then crosses the road to the entranceway before he is swallowed up too.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

This could be the last time, the Prophet Jagger once professed. _Sho' nuff._ House's decision is made in the elevator that this _will _be the last time he takes the ride up to the tenth floor of the _Sedgewick Arms. _He feels a sudden burst of determination, an adrenaline rush that gives him the impetus to hold tight to this decision.

_Sure, old man, you're all better, or as good you're gonna get. _He fills his head with assurances, with encouraging words. Leaving the car, he pauses to slip off his driving gloves (taking care not to pull away the gauze on his hand) and tuck them into his jacket pocket, before continuing down the quiet, carpeted hallway to Faulkner's apartment.

He announces his arrival, using his cane to tap the door...

...for the last time.

Faulkner is there, smiling, welcoming him with a wave of his hand and...

...suddenly...House feels a warmth in his gut. The taste of apple pie and burger grease on the back of his tongue soothes him.

He leans against the threshold, using all the restraint he can muster to stop himself from moving further into the place. If he takes one step, then one step more, he might forget that this is, indeed, the last time.

"Come in, Doctor."

House squints hard at him. "What do we do here?"

"I'm sorry?" Faulkner's lips twitch up. He smoothes the black tie that lies perfectly straight against the tan shirt.

"It doesn't seem like we do much here." House rubs his brow, takes a breath. "Three, four hours go by. It sure takes a long time to do a lot of nothing."

Faulkner clasps his hands and draws closer, his head cocked to the right. "Your pain is manageable now?"

"Yes."

"So what's the problem?" He takes the helmet from under House's arm, and sets it on the floor, in the corner.

"No problem." Looking at the ceiling, House mulls over each word before saying them. It is a supreme effort to bring them forth, like piling one gargantuan stone on top of another. "I'm...done...with...this. With...you."

"What happened to your hand, Doctor?"

House lowers his gaze to meet Faulkner's, his response terse and quick. "Cut it."

"Looks like there might be quite a gash under all that gauze." Faulkner raises his brows. "What happened?"

"Cut...it."

"Do you remember how you cut it, Doctor?"

"I..."House directs his gaze toward the polished black shoes of Bill Faulkner, then studies the way his own sneakers sink into the plush nap of the carpet. He shakes his head, his heart beating hard and fast, winces against the pie, meat, vanilla shake tastes clawing at the back of his throat, choking him. He staggers forward but Faulkner is there to catch him. His hands are rock solid under House's arms, steadying him, righting him again. The man is all warmth, cologne, impeccable, clean shaven, a shoulder, a comfort...

_Best friend Bill...always there for you..._

"It's time to rest, Dr. House, don't you think?"

His breathing slows. _Yeah, sounds like a plan._ He imagines lying back in that comfortable recliner, thinks of how perfectly it conforms to the shape of his body, like a cloud...

_(...the last time...last..time...)_

Then he is walking beside Faulkner down the long hall, through the maze of rooms, drawing nearer to the glass display. A welcome sight, mini fluorescents illuminate the wonderful dragons and knights and maidens and castles and...

He stops short. His eyes go wide and he is suddenly speechless, disconsolate. His ragged breathing makes his throat ache, the pounding of his heart causes his ribcage to shudder, as one hand shoots out to grip the side of the case. The glass trembles beneath his fingers, causing two of the smaller dragons to tip over and land on their backs on the grassy plain. They could be sleeping; they could be dead.

But the dragons are the least of House's concern.

"Gone?" House rasps.

The middle shelf, the place where the jewel encrusted sword once sparkled its mystical welcome, is empty.

"Gone," Faulkner whispers.

House's mouth falls open. He searches for a word, an exclamation, a cry

_(sounds like...)_

but he can't articulate the depths of his distress. The vacant shelf gleams its surprise. That vacancy makes House want to smash the glass with his cane, let those flying shards imbed themselves in his hair, his skin.

The pain would feel better than this emptiness that has settled inside him like a black hole.

"Where is it?" he asks.

"It's safe, don't worry." Faulkner touches his back. His palm feels good, comforting, warm.

"I want to see it."

"Oh, you will."

"Now?" House snaps his head toward Faulkner.

Faulkner's eyes gleam with empathy, the corners of his lips turning up into an easy grin.

"_Now_?" House's voice cracks.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Faulkner nods, keeping that smile in place. "Soon."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Wilson pulls his Volvo into Cuddy's driveway, he wishes he were back in his hotel room. Surely there is something on his Tivo he hasn't watched yet. Even dozing off to an infomercial would be better than being here. Articulating his fears to someone other than himself is not a pleasing prospect. But he needs an ally, someone who can offset his growing panic, assure him there is a reason behind House's strange, disturbing behavior. He tries to convince himself there is a solution. Between the two of them they will come up with an answer that makes some kind of twisted sense.

Weariness assaults him as he shuffles up the walk to the door. He hadn't realized he was so tired. Falling into bed, giving himself an hour's reprieve would feel fantastic. But it's not going to happen. Not right now. He presses the buzzer and braces himself against the wall of the porch.

The door opens immediately, like he was expected. Cuddy is dressed in black shorts, an itty bitty pink t-shirt. The faint chatter of TV trails along behind her.

"So?" she asks.

He thins his lips, fixes her with a defeated look as he shakes his head.

"Did you follow him?"

"We went to the diner."

"The diner."

"Yes."

"So you didn't find out who-"

"He...wouldn't let me." He cuts her off in a tone that is all rasp, gravel and grit.

They stand at the threshold, each hoping the other will have the grand solution to what is now more than a spot of trouble. The _chirpy chirps _of crickets is the first sign that evening is here; the soft, persistent drone of the nightly news is the other.

"Is House alright?" she asks, finally.

"I...don't think so."

She keeps her eyes on him as she steps away from the door to let him in. He wishes she wouldn't look at him like that, like he might give her a friendly chuck on her shoulder, tell her he's only kidding and ask her to a movie or a museum show or...

_No._

He sits across from her in the living room with its richly upholstered loveseats, the recliner and ottoman, the sofa, the high backed cherry wood chair (an antique, which has probably been in her family for decades). She lowers the volume on the TV. Alex Trebek's mouth jabbers but nothing comes out.

_At least one thing is as it should be._

Wilson waits a beat, collects his thoughts, then gives Cuddy the lowdown. The details of House's cholesterol adventure pour from him like cascades of water down a mountain pass. Once he starts talking he can't seem to stop. But Cuddy doesn't interject or interrupt. She just listens.

The rush of words slows to a few sad sentences, before gradually dying away. Wilson hangs his head, expecting to hear some sort of response. But Cuddy offers nothing, just pushes up from the loveseat and heads to the kitchen. When she returns, she holds two tumblers of a rich amber liquid and hands one to Wilson. Looks a lot like scotch. One taste tells Wilson it is. The good stuff.

It warms him, makes him hopeful for possibilities. Ah, yes, the magic of one hundred proof alcohol.

"I'm going to contact Gurand tomorrow," Cuddy says after her third swallow. "House needs to talk to him."

"He won't." Wilson drains the glass, immediately feeling the unique head rush only booze on an empty stomach can provide. "He'll tell you he's got a therapist. He calls this doctor his 'friend'."

She raises a brow. "You know as well as I do that a therapist is not a friend."

"House should know that too." Wilson lifts a hand, then drops it in his lap. "I think...whoever this guy is he's seeing, is playing with his head, putting stuff in there that doesn't belong."

Tapping her nearly empty glass against her armrest, Cuddy juts out her lower lip. "So you think this 'doctor' is using House as a subject rather than treating him as a patient?"

Wilson sinks back into the sofa. "I know how it sounds, believe me. But when House spoke to me tonight..." Wilson huffs out a frustrated breath, rubs one hand along the cushion. "...he sounded like a bad actor reading off an atrocious script. It was eerie. But the freakiest part was those eyes."

"It sounds like something out of a B-movie"

"I wish you could have been there." Wilson's tone has gone quiet, reflective. "That look in his eyes when he was shoveling food into his face...he was frightened, like he was crying out for help without being able...without being _permitted_ to articulate it."

She downs her drink, shakes her head. Her words are edgy and hushed. "No doctor would take on a patient for the express reason of exerting control over him."

"No." Wilson sets the cool glass against his cheek. "But you know as well as I do that House has a distinct talent for pissing people off."

_God, what the hell did he do this time?_

The question hovers in the silence, as the images on the TV flicker against the walls like shadowy spirits, as Cuddy's eyes search Wilson's, as Wilson wonders what House might be doing...

...right now...


	11. Waiting At the Station

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading/reviewing/enjoying. I appreciate it.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **To **NaiveEve** and **Betz88** for their help and encouragement

**-11-**

"Waiting At the Station"

Allison primes herself for the next installment of the knight on a train saga, beefing up her bravado as her head sinks into her pillow. But she needn't have bothered. Moments after she and Joe murmur their goodnights and settle into their familiar sleeping positions under the blankets, the phone rings. With a 'what now' groan, Joe reaches over to grab the receiver off the nightstand. After listening for a moment, he turns over, grunts, and hands it to Allison.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, staring at the handset, knowing what is to come.

It is Scanlon asking if she will join him at the station, have a word with Weir.

Why, of course, certainly, yes, si, si, señor.

The train will have to travel on without her, at least for tonight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

She arrives at the station house to see Scanlon pacing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. The building and parking area are brightly lit. Streetlamps stand at each corner of the lot, throwing blankets of brightness over the Fiats, Dodges, BMW's, and police cruisers parked there. Those lights provide pretty good assurance that this is one place in the city a felon wouldn't think of plying his craft.

Yet a parking area set in front of a building full of cops might not be a deterrent. It could be the one place a truly crazed citizen might get away with forcing an unsuspecting gal into his smelly, dilapidated Ford Taurus. The thought comes to her unbidden, totally out of the blue, leaving her wondering if this scenario has ever played out here...

Skip it. Don't go there. Do not let that thought prey on your already addled mind...

She hurries up the stairs as Scanlon pushes open the door. "Weir decided to be a talkative sonofabitch tonight, waived his right to counsel for now. We're hoping for a confession but all we've got right now is a lot of babble," he says as Allison falls into step beside him, attempting to match his long strides and doing a fair job of it. She squints through the bright fluorescence of this charming reception area. A few scraggly denizens of the night doze on the bench against the wall, a tearful middle aged woman sits at a desk, chattering and weeping to the gum chewing officer typing out her complaint.

"I was hoping you might be able to make some sense out of his insanity," Scanlon holds open the entrance to a more murky, shadow strewn area of the building. It smells like day old coffee and year old cigarettes. "If we can't make some progress tonight, they'll cart him off for a psychiatric exam. Probably have him declared legally insane once a lawyer gets involved."

"From what you're saying, I'm surprised he's not there already."

"He really should be." Scanlon leads her into the interrogation room. It is rectangular, sparsely furnished, dank and depressing. The grey green walls surround a long wooden table. Weak amber light spills from two overhead domes, illuminating the table's faded, scuffed veneer. There will be no water pitcher set out as a welcome on this ancient, oft used table, no drinking glass, pencils, pens or anything that can be considered a potential weapon.

Here is where Allison will try to eke out some sort of clue as to who Curtis is, looking into his eyes, listening to him speak. She knows she will be leaving herself open to whatever makes this mess of a person tick: what he has done, where he has been. And judging by the disturbing glimpse she caught of him in the mall, it will not be a joy filled ride.

She seats herself behind the table, her gaze traveling to the one way mirror adjacent to the door. Scanlon will stand behind that mirror, observing her progress, at the ready if anything potentially dangerous should occur.

"Ready?"

Allison nods, not so sure she is. Scanlon takes his leave and, as the door closes, she senses movement behind her. Turning her head, she sees Dead Kid and Alexandra sitting in the corner, their eyes boring through her.

No, no, NO.

"Please...go."

"You're supposed to be on the train." Dead Kid throws her that now familiar accusatory glare.

"It will have to wait," Allison hisses as her eyes meet Alexandra's. "And you shouldn't be here."

The girl shrugs, places her hands behind her head and leans back. Her smile is vibrant, so _alive._ It causes Allison to clench a fist and look away.

The door squeals on its hinges as it opens, as if in protest of what is to come. A rattle of chains and the heavy footfalls of two uniformed cops announces Weir's arrival. The cops escort him in, seat him opposite Allison. Weir's ankles are chained together; his hands are shackled before him. He is clad in the obligatory orange prison garb. But he doesn't look the part of the accused serial killer. With his jovial grin, starry eyes and wheat colored hair, he could be some happy longshoreman out for a grand night at a costume party.

"You can go," Allison tells the officers.

"Detective Scanlon wants us to stay."

Weir giggles and brings his cuffed hands to his face to wipe at his eyes.

Allison sighs. "Tell the detective to give me a few minutes alone with...Mr. Weir." She tosses a grim smile at the accused, who responds with another giggle. "It's the only way I can do this."

The officers look from her to Weir then at each other. They shrug, head for the door. "We'll be right outside."

"Thanks." She turns her attention to Weir. "Hi. I'm sorry about all that."

"Not a problem," he says, jangling his cuffs. His eyes go wide as he takes in his surroundings, jaw dropping as if this dingy hole of a room possesses the magnificence of the Sistine Chapel.

"My name is Allison. I work for the District Attorney's office. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?"

"Certainly not." He beams. "Not a problem. Never, ever a problem."

"But there has been a problem," she says, noticing an odd glistening in the area above the one-way mirror, "with you and the officers." It seems the wall is...perspiring.

"These police officers are coarse creatures, they hold no respect. But you, ma'am, you call me Mister Weir." He snorts out a laugh and shifts in his seat like a restless four year old. "We've only just met but I get the feeling you understand me." Leaning forward, he bares his teeth. They are straight, white, beautiful. "You see the pretty in the horror, Allison. Pretty name, pretty lady." He raises his hands so those shackles jingle, jangle, jingle, before returning them to his lap. "I will tell _you _this. No one else. Do you understand the privilege, pretty Ali?"

It takes all her will to restrain herself from twisting her lips and looking away. "I'd like to think so."

"You are modest and kind and pretty," he proclaims, eyes shining, head tilting to the right. "So I will tell you a secret about myself. Would you like that?"

"I would." She folds her hands on the table like a schoolgirl waiting for a lesson.

"I love the people I kill. And I kill them because of the beauty. How entrancing they look as they die, so utterly resigned to their fate as the fear leaves them."

His look is soft and dreamy, Allison thinks, like ice cream melting in the sun.

"After the first few strikes of the blade, the eyes go blank and they realize that this is why they were put here in the first place." The words fall from his lips like black roses. Black roses. She pictures fields of them, the ashen faces of the dead bobbing between the petals, like children playing hide and seek. So many. Too many.

The wall is sweating blood. Thick scarlet streams flow down its dull surface before rolling like lazy rivers over the smooth, shiny mirror. She checks in with Dead Kid and Alexandra, still huddled together like kittens in the corner. Alex's chest is a glistening gaping maw. The blood saturates her shirt, which has been slashed into ragged blue ribbons. Dead Kid strokes her hair as they watch the proceedings with open mouthed awe.

"Who is Johnny?"

Weir's blonde brows raise in surprise. "Johnny just drove the car," he blurts out. "But not in New Jersey. I respect him for what he did in New Jersey."

Allison's gaze jumps toward the bloodied mirror, then back to Weir. "What did he do?"

"In New Jersey he shot the doctor," Weir says matter-of-factly, "but in Minnesota he just drove the car."

"I see." She hears a scream, then another, another, until the room is filled with them. She rubs her eyes, wishing she could get the smell of death out of her nostrils.

"Tired, Miss Ali?"

"Yes, Mr. Weir." She rises. "I think it's time I went home."

"I would follow you, make sure you arrived safe and sound." He lifts his bound hands and with a sorry shake of his head adds, "If I could."

An image hurtles at her like a high fly ball plummeting to earth: here is Weir strolling through her kitchen, while her girls sleep on, so innocent, so...unaware. She represses a shudder as he touches the Spongebob magnets on the refrigerator, searches the drawers for the sharpest, deadliest looking of all her knives...

"Thank you," Allison stutters, pushing away from the table. She heads for the door, noting with some relief it has already been opened by a uniform.

"I won't talk to them," Weir calls. "Only you."

"Get a lawyer, Mr. Weir."

As she moves into the corridor, Dead Kid and Alexandra fall into step beside her. "Better get back on that train, lady," Dead Kid tells her. "Your knight's about to fall."

She doesn't respond, just heads toward Scanlon who meets her eyes over the gaggle of detectives and uniforms.

"You okay?"

"It's a good thing he's in here, Lee." She shudders. "You damn well better find a way to keep him locked up."

"He's not going anywhere."

They move quickly down the corridor, steps echoing in the bleakness. Scanlon wonders about Weir's supposed accomplice Johnny. Does he exist? Had he really shot a doctor in New Jersey? Could he be a fabrication: someone created by a sick, albeit crafty mind to toss them a distraction? Allison doesn't think so. She got the impression that as twisted as Weir is, he didn't lie to her...about anything. She has a feeling they will learn more about Weir...and Johnny. Tomorrow.

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"Lancelot"

House sighs as his eyes slip closed, his body sinking deeper into the plush cushions of the recliner. But something about his descent into the trance unnerves Faulkner. He noticed a hesitation before the surrender, a swift, tight-lipped rebellion, a sharp angry glare before the lights went out.

Can't have that, Billy, can we?

No matter. He throws off his consternation like a dog shaking off the rain. After this session, the countdown begins. And in a day or so, the big red "Game Over" sign will flash above the good doctor's head. All done, all gone. There will be newspaper reports, an abundance of weeping and mourning. His colleagues will be mortified, of course. But this was not totally unexpected. The man was a genius, a tortured soul. They all go young, don't they?

Amid all the ruckus, Faulkner will take a much deserved vacation: a tour of the Andes, a place Danielle used to speak of fondly but he has yet to visit. The ruins, the mountains. It will be different, offer him a fresh perspective on...everything. Danielle will be there in spirit. They can commune. Hopefully she will approve of what he has done...for her. The airline ticket, purchased one week ago, is in the locked lower left hand drawer of his desk. Its presence adds to his satisfaction.

He is proud and a little amazed at how well his plans are going. It has only been two weeks and look how much progress he's made. Weir is the only stickety wicket, which is more Johnny's burden than his, but still...

If Faulkner is approached about his association with Greg, he will gladly surrender the meticulous notes he has kept over the course of the therapy. The notes are a fabulous work of fiction. An absolute masterwork. They dance lightly over the truth and never mention the medication in Faulkner's left trouser pocket that will send the doctor over the edge...for the last time.

Of course there is still Johnny to worry about. Currently he sits next to Sarah in their three room apartment just outside Minneapolis, watching and listening to this session via webcam. Their virtual presence at the session is a going away present for the two of them. Faulkner would prefer they leave as soon as possible. But Johnny wanted, _needed _to watch the show.

And so...it begins.

Faulkner smiles, leans one hand against the armrest of the chair. "How was your dinner, Greg?"

House's head rolls sleepily against one shoulder, then the other. "Mmmm. Lotta food."

"Yes, but it's all so good, isn't it? Makes you comfortable, relaxed and sleepy."

"Good..."

Faulkner lifts House's gauzed wrapped left hand in his. "You've done excellent work here. I'm very pleased."

House's lips twitch; he winces.

"You're very proud of what you did to your hand, aren't you?"

He seems to consider this, his lips moving along with some internal dialogue. He tilts his head, sighs. "No," he says, finally.

"You should be, Greg. In fact, the more you think about it, the better it makes you feel. So happy."

"Hurts."

"You can push that hurt down. You know how."

"Hurts," he hisses through his teeth.

"Push it down. Deeper...deeper...that's it."

House's mouth falls open. A soft moan escapes him as his hand drops to his side.

Faulkner rubs his palms together, those wheels in his grey matter clickity clacking away. "Show me what you used to do it."

Immediately House reaches in his jacket's inner pocket and produces the scalpel. His blood has dried to a rusty brown, tingeing the tip and dotting the lower edge of the blade.

"Very good. Very nice. Open your eyes so you can see it too."

Blinking his eyes open, House scowls as he meets Faulkner's gaze.

Faulkner runs a finger along the top of the scalpel, responding to House's bitter look with a gentle smile. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

House gaze softens as it shifts to the blade, his hand trembling slightly as he tilts his head in wonderment. "Beautiful".

"We have lots to talk about today, so much to do."

The scalpel keeps him in its thrall, and House can only manage a single nod.

"Let's put it with the others, Greg." Faulkner holds out his hand for the blade. After a moment's hesitation, House relents, his scowl returning as he places the scalpel into Faulkner's palm.

"Come." Faulkner hands House his cane, motions for him get out of the chair.

House swings his left leg over the edge of the chair. He grips his right leg, eases it down with a minimum of effort.

"It doesn't hurt, does it?" Faulkner says.

"No pain," House says.

"Your hand?"

"No...pain."

"Very good."

They move into the center of the room, where Faulkner tells House to stop and face the camera.

"Say hello to Johnny, Greg. He lives a long way from here."

House squints at the lens, as if he is trying to see through it...all the way to A Long Way From Here. On the 27 inch screen, his grainy black and white image returns a dazed and curious look.

"It's me."

"Yes, Johnny can see you."

"I can't see him."

"That's okay," Faulkner assures him. "Say hello."

House shrugs. He gives the screen one more perfunctory look before his head bobs, his shoulders slump and his gaze falls to his sneakers.

Faulkner holds tight to his patience. Greg is gradually becoming something of a challenge, making Faulkner glad the game is almost over. "Rise and shine," he says, giving House's shoulder a squeeze.

House's head snaps up. Bleary gaze meets lens again.

"Focus, Greg. Say hello."

"H'lo."

"Thank you." He walks to the camera, shifts it slightly to the left, so it can track them as they move on to...

...the desk. Here the treasury of blades from two weeks ago has tripled in size to include more sharp, potentially lethal tools: a handy little switchblade, a hunting knife and an ice pick are the most recent additions culled from the Greg House collection of sharp things.

Faulkner waves the scalpel in front of House's intent gaze, then offers it to him. "Put this with the others."

House takes the scalpel, then moves his eyes over the glimmering bounty. "The sword," he says with a hitch in his voice. "Gone..."

"You'll see it again but you're going to have to work for it. Once you do, it will be yours." Faulkner touches his shoulder once more. "It will belong to you."

The crease between House's brows deepens; he runs his tongue across his lower lip. He studies this treasure trove again, gaze traveling from one end of the desk to the other. A tear shimmers in the corner of one eye.

Faulkner puts a capper on his elation, not allowing the moment to rule him. He wishes Johnny could see that itty bitty tear, this miniscule yet powerful evidence of their success. Greg is paying dearly for his thoughtlessness, which is only fair. His death won't bring Danielle back. But it is fitting retribution for a life so senselessly cut down.

The tear rolls down House's cheek, glistening in his beard for a moment before winking out. All gone, like the glorious demise of a shooting star. House sniffs, sets the scalpel gently next to the plastic knife, then jams his hand into his jacket pocket.

The corners of Faulkner's mouth turn down. Suspicion, curiosity, distrust conspire to send him exploring. He crosses to House's opposite side and raises a brow at the hidden hand clenching and unclenching... "What do you have?"

House keeps his gaze focused on all the lovely silvery sharp things laid out before him.

"Remember the curse?"

A sharp gasp. A shake of the head. An attempt to ward off...

"Think of us when you hurt," Faulkner enunciates each word to assure the curse's potency. "When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart." He taps a finger against his desk, smiling slowly as he adds, "The curse can't harm you if you own the sword, Greg. But if you don't show me what you have in that pocket, you will never see that sword again."

House flinches, his mouth moves along with some internal rumination. And the hand keeps clenching and clenching, as if controlled by some otherworldly puppeteer.

"Think about the pretty red jewels, the light glinting and glittering off each one." Faulkner coos as gently as a light breeze. "Imagine how deliciously rough they would feel, if you scraped them across your palm. And that perfect blade, would feel so wonderfully cool pressing against your wrist..."

The clenching ceases. House flinches again. It's as if he's been slapped across the face. But after a moment, his expression belies this: stoic; eyes blank, his mouth a thin, still line. He blinks once, twice, slowly removing from his pocket...

...a silver pen.

Faulkner heaves a disgruntled sigh and shakes his head.

House's fingers tighten around the pen, causing his knuckles to go white, the veins in his wrist to strain.

Something clicks inside Faulkner. The deep seated savagery all humans possess floats to the surface, giving him bad thoughts, murderous ideas. The rebelliousness Greg exhibits is interesting yet unbelievably frustrating. His subconscious is trying so diligently to work out an escape plan. And in a clinical sense, Greg's behavior is impressive, certainly one for the books. Unfortunately, it is not making Faulkner a happy guy.

The knives and sinister looking tools lying side by side are sharpened, honed and at the ready. It would be so easy to use one to...expedite the process. Ending this now would make for a rather cheery finale to the evening. Glancing at the lens, Faulkner gives Johnny a somber nod. No. That is not how this is going to happen. The plan was made; the plan will be fulfilled. Johnny is watching, Johnny needs to know this will go the way it is supposed to go.

"Whose pen is it, Greg?"

The fist continues to tremble as House bows his head. His jaw works, the cords in his neck strain as he struggles not to say...

"Wilson?" Faulkner breathes in his ear.

Yes! Greg is making such a wonderful sound: a delectable simpering noise, which crosses the line between a pathetic cry and a groan of defeat.

Faulkner exhales softly, his world brighter now, his frown turned upside down; the muscles in his stomach and shoulders ease. Everything is going to be a-okay, okey, dokie, ju-ust...fine.

"And where does _Wilson_'s pen go?"

House chews a corner of his lower lip. After a moment, he grips the head of his cane and takes a walk around to the opposite side of the desk. There he stares morosely at the wastebasket, extends his closed tremulous hand above it. With a soft, shallow cry, he lets the pen to fall into that endless blackness only he can see.

Faulkner doesn't think he has ever been more elated. He calls House back to his seat, watches his gradual, reluctant return. Reaching into his pocket, Faulkner retrieves the vial of Zolpidem, a useful little drug: a potent sedative that can cause hallucinations under the proper circumstances...

...such as the ones Faulkner has planned.

"Hold out your palm."

House lifts his head, extends his good hand, watches with some interest as Faulkner drops two pills into it.

"Take your meds, Greg," Faulkner says, winking over at the steady glass lens. "We're going on a long, wonderful trip."


	12. The Hidden Place

**A/N: **As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, enjoying.

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **To **NaiveEve** and **Betz88** for their comments and encouragement.

**-12-**

"The Hidden Place"

It's strange. Every now and then the ceiling shadows rearrange themselves, shifting from one grey-black kaleidoscopic pattern to another. Wilson considers this as he lies drowsy and drunk on the Marriott hotel room bed. Perhaps those shadows are seeking personal comfort zones or spicing up their odd, quiet lives by shape shifting. Right now, Wilson wouldn't mind joining their party. If he could spend eternity as a wispy, _mindless_ entity, he wouldn't have to think of his best friend in the throes of...who knows what. Hell, the four glasses of Scotch he'd downed at Cuddy's did nothing to alleviate his consternation. If anything, they increased his anxiety, made the whole surreal day seem even more like a Salvador Dali painting.

Mindless is the operative word here...

He took a real risk driving himself back to his hotel (he could never bring himself to call the place 'home'), drunken, staggering sot that he is. When Cuddy insisted on giving him a ride, he shushed her and told her he was an old pro at getting his own intoxicated ass where it needed to be. He is, after all, best buds with Greg House, a man who has encouraged him to booze it up more times than he can count.

And where is ol' pal Greg right now?

Wilson took the long way back from Cuddy's telling himself it was quicker and less hazardous than braving the highway. The fact that the backroads brought him past House's building had nothing to do with the matter at hand. Nothing at all.

_Yes, James, you are an excellent liar, even to yourself. Especially to yourself._

Sitting in his Volvo, parked across the street from House's door, he had lost track of time. The darkness beyond the living room window mocked him. It was getting late. After eight o' clock. Why wasn't House home yet? How long did a session last? What kind of hours did therapists keep these days, anyway?

House's apartment key dangled enticingly on the ring hanging from the ignition. It would have been easy to flip the keys into his hand, swagger up to the door, push the key in lock, walk right in, see the sights. _Yes._ Wilson closed his eyes to better picture House's domain. So many new and interesting discoveries could be made by checking out the trash, the mail tossed on the desk, the computer. Yes, that's where the answers were, curled up like snails in their shells: hiding somewhere in that vast maze of papers, files and unopened correspondence.

But he didn't go for it, didn't give in to temptation. The shadows shift again. They look like amoeba, he thinks, or a group of fetuses floating...floating...

He rouses himself, forces his heavy lids open wider and stretches. Maybe he should have gone in, looked around.

_What if he caught you?_

Yeah, that would have been one worth telling the grandkids. _There was that time your Uncle Greg caught me going through his trash and throttled me with his cane. No...he was a really good guy. Just a little grouchy sometimes. You would have loved him._

Why think of House in the past tense? Past tense is a no no. It means the person is long gone, a past participle. A shadow.

A chill passes through him. If he's going to sleep, he should pile on the blankets and just retire. But it's still early.

(_what's he doing now? throwing back a tumbler or two of the good stuff, swaying on the piano bench, fingers flowing over the keys, waiting for his own playing to transport him? what...is...he...doing?)_

It's still kind of early: only 9:45 according to the luminous red digits of the nightstand clock. This fine evening boasts a full moon; it winks at him through a slit in the curtains, shining on lovers, confused diagnosticians, the lost and lonely.

He flaps his lips and waves a dismissive hand at the moving shadows. He thinks he's getting maudlin, he thinks of calling House, then thinks he's right on the first count as he rejects the second. The voicemail he would leave would be ignored, deleted, a waste.

Pleased that his head is not pounding (_oh, it will later, bucko_), he manages to push himself off the bed and weave toward the desk. Leaning against it for support, he snags his jeans and only slightly wrinkled dress shirt off the arm of the chair.

The bar and grill downstairs is open until eleven. He can grab a sandwich, maybe surf the net on the courtesy computer in the lobby (provided there are no ten year old girls perusing the _High School Musical_ website, like last time). A laptop should be his next acquisition. Really, there is no excuse not to have one in this day and age.

_This day and age..._

The shadows shift again, like they are waving farewell. _Bye, bye. _He giggles, grabbing his keys and wallet off the dresser before heading out the door.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

_...a long, wonderful trip..._

The walls are scarlet, velvet, as richly exotic as those of a brothel from the old west. He is proud of them, like's 'em a whole lot. They were custom made, after all. He just put in his order and _poof! _there they were. Pretty damn cool, huh? But this is part of the game, and in this game _he_ sets the rules.

_Down, down, down, the dark ladder_, he thinks as he heads deeper and deeper into the warmth, the shadows...The Hidden Place.

There is music. These brothel walls, pulse and pound with down and dirty blues. A battered old duffel bag has opened somewhere, tossing out its musical stash to entertain and delight.

"_Rollin' and Tumblin'...Born Under A Bad Sign..."Steady Rollin' Man_"...

It seems all the bluesman he ever idolized and emulated have come together for this summit, to read him the righteous word.

_Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon J., Muddy Waters, Albert King..._

His pores open like the mouths of a thousand ravenous birds, each one welcoming the music, as some part of him (and at this moment he might even believe it's his soul) shouts out a resounding _'yeah, man!'_ Like snowflakes, each note is a beauty, every one a unique slice of heaven.

_Never, ever felt so good._

He senses Faulkner (_Best_ _Friend Bill) _following close behind as he drifts deeper down. He can smell the man's cologne, feel his solid presence. House smiles, pleased his friend has joined him. His fingers brush along the wall's velvety softness; he is enjoying the ride but not disappointed to see his destination. It is like the music...indescribably, ridiculously good.

_What do you see, Greg?_

A bed, he responds, realizing he doesn't need to move his lips to speak. It would be much too difficult anyway, and why make the effort when he doesn't have to? Best Friend Bill can hear his thoughts. House drifts through a curtain of shimmering, multicolored beads (_I made this!)_ . Wow, so utterly rad. Oh, and now, look. Look at that bed: round with a thick, cushy mattress. Gonna sink into that sucker, sink down so far, they'll never find me. This is The Hidden Place, after all. He likes it. Can't wait to lay his head on all those billowy pillows piled so high against the headboard.

_Lovely._

Tiffany lamps are set on the nightstands on either side of the bed. Their muted light beckons, making the bed look that much more enticing. He draws nearer,and in slow motion, falls backwards into the bed. The experience is more wonderful than he could have ever dreamed. The quilt is red velvet; he swims in sheets that are cool pink satin. The mattress, ah, the mattress conforms to his body, cradling him like a cloud. The bed rocks him gently up and back...

_I need you to _stay_ awake enough to listen and respond, Greg. Can you do that?_

Listen and respond. He inhales deeply, exhales slowly. He can try.

_I need you to do more than try._

Oookay.

_This is a lovely room you've made here, a place we will be visiting each time we meet from now on._

Yes.

_Everything we talk about here, stays here. You will have no memory of your Hidden Place. Not even when we're in my office. Is that clear?_

Yes.

Best Friend Bill stands at the side of the bed, smiling, observing. His hands are behind his back now as he strolls the length of the room. Behind him is a window overlooking a glorious sunset. And way out on the horizon are pyramids: Mykerinos the Divine, Chephren the Great, Cheops the Horizon.

_I'm going to tell you a story. It's a short one, but an important one. Are you ready to listen? _

Yes.

_Once there was a woman named Danielle. She was lovely, pretty and vibrant, and owned a little Italian restaurant in Trenton. Sound familiar?_

No.

_No? Hmmm. She was my sister._

Oh.

_Danielle married an insurance adjuster named Jack Moriarity. Do you know either of these people, Greg?_

No.

_Would you like to hear something interesting?_

Yes.

_You do know them...very well. _

I...know them...

_Jack was a patient of yours, came to you with a rare infection in his lungs. It might have killed him if you hadn't diagnosed him so quickly._

...Pneumocystis Canni Pneumonia.

_So...you remember the disease but the patient..._

namedoesn't...matter...watch me save a life...fix 'em up...get...'em...out...

_They're people, not cars._

...fix 'em up-

_Your attitude leaves something to be desired, Greg._

get 'em out...

_In the course of treating Jack, you chatted with Danielle and let slip a confidence._

I...did.

_You told her Jack admitted to having an extramarital affair in the course of his travels. Do you remember that, Greg?_

Yes.

_Her suicide note cited this as the reason she asphyxiated herself in the family Ford._

Yes.

_What Jack did was wrong, certainly. But if it wasn't for your betrayal of a confidence, Danielle would be alive today._

Oops.

Best Friend Bill looks seriously miffed. One moment he is standing by the bed, then he is the irate face of the moon in the steadily darkening sky. Back and forth, back and forth. House struggles to think of something wise or funny to say to defuse Bill's mood but nothing comes to mind. The bed is too comfortable, the pyramids are so pretty, the music pulses deep inside his chest; he thinks he'd like to doze a bit.

But he can't. No. The white moon face looms over him, mere inches away, that mouth moving out of sync with the words: _Your room has gone cold. When you exhale your breath is frosty white. See the icy sheen forming on the velvet walls?_

His mouth falls open as he primes himself to resist the suggestion that is gradually taking hold (_this is my room)_. But even now he can feel that cold seeping through his bones. Puffs of frost escape his lips and nostrils as his breaths quicken, his teeth chatter...

_Why, it's freezing in here. The bed has turned to a slab of ice and your right thigh is on fire. The skin feels like it's stretched much too tight, like at any moment it might...just...crack._

House moans and this time he does it out loud.

_Think about what you did, how you killed a woman, ruined a man's life._

The pain is exquisite. Tears fill his eyes, causing the pyramids to blur, shift and tremble through the glass.

_He shot you, remember, Greg? One in the neck, one in the gut. You lucked out. The bad ones always survive, bounce back from the brink, don't they? But Jack got away, so maybe there is some justice in the world, after all._

He hears himself moan again, this time it melds with a strangled cry. So cold. Wrapping his arms around his chest does nothing. He shifts and writhes like a worm trapped under a microscope lens. Cold moisture seeps through his jacket, the back of his shirt, the seat of his jeans...

_Jack escaped to Sarah in Minnesota. She was the woman he met on his travels. The one with whom he had the affair._

House doesn't care about Jack or Sarah or Minnesota. He just wants his bed back. He wants to be warm again. The music has turned into a herky-jerky mess of bluesmen and calliopes. Outside the wind howls, the pyramids have vanished under massive drifts of snow. Everything's bad, everything...

_Through Sarah, Jack became involved with Curtis Weir, an unfortunate pig of a man who was Sarah's ex-boyfriend. With Weir and Sarah, Jack found excitement, got a taste for the con games they ran. Yes, I know how cold you are. If you don't pay attention you will get even colder._

House hisses a soft complaint through his teeth.

_When Curtis accidentally killed one of his marks, he discovered he had a taste for blood and convinced Jack to drive him around to his jobs. Weir was crafty, persuasive. A real charmer. Never got caught. Moved on to Phoenix, knowing Jack and Sarah would never tell..._

House thinks warm thoughts: the sun on his face as he roars down the highway on his bike, a pink sand beach in Bermuda where he and Stacy once vacationed. Warm, warm, WARM.

_I sense you're more concerned with getting warm than you are for making restitution, Greg. _

Busted!

_But you can't escape the facts or the truth. You're guilty of killing an innocent woman with your heedlessness. And an overwhelming sense of guilt will ride you and ride you until all you want to do is escape...the only way you can._

A hand falls over his brow.

_You're warm now. The ice has melted, turned to steam, floating away as the temperature rises. Gone. You're comfortable...feel good. So good._

House flexes his fingers, the tension in his body leaving him as he is enveloped by warmth. The bluesmen are back, moanin' away on their harps, wailing their woe in unison...

_Look out the window._

Sleepy. His chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. His eyelids are leaden, eyes narrowed to slits. Still he manages to turn his head...

_Stay with me, Greg. Are you with me?_

...yeah...

_See the train out there? She's a beauty, isn't she? Three red and gold cars plus a locomotive. All for you, Greg._

Yes. A train...just like the Orient Express. There she is: huffing her impatience, the wheels submerged in white billowy puffs as she deigns to wait for him. He manages to push himself up on one elbow to get a better look. Interesting. The train has no connection to a rail or tracks. The white fluffy puffs are...clouds. She is a steel and glass angel being borne by...clouds. Well, no real surprise there.

At home in the night sky, the moon shines its approval. House nods in agreement and can just see the sand-gold tops of the pyramids peeking over the train.

_Put yourself in the last car. _

The room, _his_ room melts away and he now finds himself in a real a beauty of a train. He chooses a seat by a window, sinks into it. No skimping here. The seat is made of real leather, the color of a tropical sunset. He is impressed by the luxury, smiles at the polished wood paneled walls, the maroon carpeting embellished by tiny gold starbursts. He fingers the umbrella-like shade of the little lamp by the window.

Cool.

With a hiss and a squeak, the train's brakes are released, and the cars begin their journey to...where? Somewhere, anywhere. Does it matter? The landscape is bone white, flat, shadow strewn. The moon is round and full, smiling at him as it floats along the train route.

_You've gone deeper than your Hidden Place, Greg. _

Faulkner's voice squawks through the four red velvet speakers, two in the front, two in the rear of the car.

_And each train car you visit will bring you farther from the world, send you deeper inside yourself. Your guilt will intensify, your sense of self loathing will prey on you until you will no longer be able to live with it._

Despite the lulling rhythm of the train, panic form fits itself around House's throat, pressing up and in. He chokes, coughs, sputters, head twisting this way and that. He wishes for an exit, a door he might wrench open, an escape hatch.

_And once you reach that first car, you will get a fabulous reward for the pain you've endured. Do you know what it is, Greg?_

An image of the sword floats before him, inches away, bobbing up and down. With one trembling hand he reaches for it, but feels a smothering sense of disappointment as his fingers pass through it. But it's okay. _Up and down._ The motion soothes him, eases his fear. The promise of possession will suffice for now. The light glints off the silver blade, dancing over the jewels, turning them pink, then white, then red...

_And once the sword is in your hands, you will know exactly what to do._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Wilson wonders, not for the first time, why there is a library off the hotel's main lobby. He has to admit, it does look inviting, with its red brick fireplace and high bookshelves filled to capacity. But he can't help wondering if anyone ever throws a match on a Therma-Log to get a cozy blaze going? Do guests ever seat themselves on these chocolate brown sofas to peruse the literary fare? He can't resist taking a peek at what a library adjacent to _Finnegen's Bar and Grill_ might have to offer. Hmmm, okay. _The Carpetbaggers_, by Harold Robbins, _Valley Of the Dolls _by Jacqueline Susanne. Makes sense. Naughty books from the '60's. Scads of them. Pages and pages of them. He wonders again. Legal mood enhancers? Find a titillating passage and make it work for you and your new friend from _Finnegen's _before retiring hand and hand to your room?

_Yeah, that's the ticket. _

The floor tilts. He weaves to the right, stumbles into the arm of the sofa and excuses himself.

_My, my. You are so blitzed. How smashed would you say you were, Jimmy? Give it a number, just for giggles. _House's voice bounces from one side of Wilson's grey matter to the other.

_Eight, _Wilson thinks. _Happy now, you sick, secretive bastard?_

He runs a hand down his face, thinking he should go to bed, sleep it off. But Steffie's at the reception desk; the lobby is empty, the computer can be his best bud for the night. He wanders over, throws his most practiced dimpled grin at his pretty friend before seating himself at the terminal.

It feels like home. Steffie hums softly as she tends to her paperwork. The enticing aroma of burger and onions wafts over from _Finnegen's. _Later he will get one with the works to bring back to the room. So tasty. Burgers usually don't do it for him. He's usually the turkey, salad, stuffed peppers guy. But a big, juicy burger seems like just the thing...

_Just the thing to get you barfing in the night. _

Yeah, but it's the getting there that's good. Right Steffie? He watches her from the corner of his eye. She is talking on the phone, cradling the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, nails clicking on the keyboard. He would like...to ravage her. Leap over the reception desk, force her against the wall, hike her staid little skirt up, tear off her panties and...

Steffie hangs up the phone. Wilson exhales sharply. How long had he been holding that breath? His chest burns. Whipping his attention back to the screen, he finds he has Googled "Mind Control" but has yet to do the search. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he is afraid of what he will find. Yeah, well, we all have to bite the bullet, tear back the tarp, stare at the maggots under the rock. He hitches forward in his seat and throws all his concentration into getting what he came for...

...and finds a site he wishes he had missed. It is the main page of the Mind Freedom Center. They seem to know their stuff; their list of mind control 'warning signs' is pretty darn thorough, confirming his worst fears. Each time he checks off a symptom he feels like a mallet is pounding him deeper into the ground: changes in physical appearance (_whomp), _personality _(whomp), _communication style _(whomp), _relationships _(whomp! whomp!)_ He probably should have just gotten his burger and gone back to the room.

"Are you okay, James?" Steffie calls to him from the desk.

His head is in his hands, breaths coming in hard little hitches.

"Yes...I'll...be fine," he manages to say.

The once mouth watering aroma of food is making him sick, his stomach turning like the slow, easy spin of a roulette wheel. He pushes out of his chair, feeling the scotch in his gut hitch and rise. Looks like his evening plans have been made for him._ That date with the burger will have to wait for another time_, he thinks as he makes tracks for the elevator.

He's got another more pressing appointment with the porcelain throne.


	13. I Fall Apart

**A/N: **Thanks to all who've been reading, reviewing and enjoying.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88**

-**13-**

"I Fall Apart"

The first piece of armor to go is the right sleeve. It cracks clean through the middle, then lands with a _clank _on the seat beside him. The knight hangs his head, his sigh metallic and harsh, as if he has been transformed into some monstrous creature inside that helm.

Allison sits opposite him, wishing she could offer some comfort but is hesitant to touch the newly exposed arm of his suit jacket. If she does, he might pull away, go deeper into the mire that seems to be slowly consuming him.

_Clink, clank. _Two fingers of his left gauntlet break away like rotting tree limbs. They fall to the floor and roll beneath the seat.

"Hello...?" she tries.

He raises his head. _Fwoomp! _The blue glow behind his visor ignites and flares, burning like a gas jet, morphing into fingers of warmth: now azure, now aquamarine, now deep blue as a summer sky. The heat rises until it is at its zenith; hot like noontime beach sand on bare feet. The blaze burns steady and brilliant, caressing the edge of the visor's blackened, pocked metal before lashing out (_like a sword) _at Allison. She gasps and winces as it singes her brow, her cheekbones, her chin...

...as the armor continues its mutiny, its heavy components crashing around the knight like metal rain.

But the helm stubbornly remains in place, the last holdout. His moans can just barely be heard...

...as the train seems to float rather than roll, moving on to...somewhere.

"He thinks he's cursed," Dead Kid explains from the other end of the car. He sits beside Alexandra, one arm slung across her shoulders, the other raised to get Allison's attention. "That's my dad's fault."

"Your dad...put a curse on him?"

The loudspeaker crackles. "Think of us when you hurt," it squawks in response. "When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart."

"Why?"

From behind the visor comes a soft sob, then another. The knight hunches over, burying his helm in his hands. His shoulders shake as he begins to cry in earnest.

Allison watches him for a few moments. Her hand reaches out of its own accord. But she pulls it back, fearful a touch will cause him to alienate himself further from her. But that hand is insistent, moving toward him once again. She takes a chance, allowing her fingers to rest on his arm. Surprisingly, he shifts only slightly, the ruined metal surrounding him clashes its complaint.

"My father is an ass. He always did like to play head games." Dead Kid jabs a forefinger at them. "Tell him he's not cursed, that it's not his fault."

"What's not his fault?"

"Just tell him,"

Allison is taken aback by Dead Kid's tone. It is surprising in its confidence, it impels her to move.

"You heard him," Allison leans forward, lips brushing the warm metal. "Please...at least let me see your face."

The knight responds with one long, exaggerated shake of his head.

The curse can be heard over and over, repeated on a loop (_think of us when you hurt). _Each word, each phrase seems to pull him further down.

"He has to know the consequences..." Dead Kid is shouting, struggling to be heard over the dark mantra (_when the pain gets so bad...) _as its volume increases, causing the walls to tremble as the loop spins round again. Alexandra burrows her head into Dead Kid's chest. He strokes her hair but his expression remains resolute, those eyes are stony, like two shining chips of jade. "Once he steps into that last car, he's done," he growls, waving a free hand at the door between the cars.

Despite the urgency of his words, Allison's attention is called away by a strange liquid warmth seeping through the silken material of her dress. With a start and a sharp gasp, she rears back, palms scrubbing her thighs. Her dress clings to her legs, as her hands come away moist, red and sticky as...

...the knight sways in his seat, the jet blue flames behind his visor dim as they flicker, like they are fighting for life. His hands are in his lap, palms up, blood dripping from the jagged vertical cuts in his wrists. The blood saturates his jeans, the cuffs of his dress shirt, beading up on the chair's orange-red upholstery. Something shimmers at his side: a jewel encrusted sword, the edge of its blade stained a deep arterial red...

...and then she knows.

"He has one more day to plan an escape. He _has_ to get away," Dead Kid shouts, his hand falling to his side. "Do something!"

Behind the knight's eyes the light is low, gentle, a flicker of farewell. Fighting off her reticence, Allison stands and places her hands gently on either side of his helm. It is a signal for his strength to return. He is a big man, tall and lean. If he were in better shape he could easily fight her off. As it is, he makes a valiant attempt, tilting drunkenly to one side, then hitching forward to grasp the hilt of his sword. Blue light flares behind the visor, its scorching flame singeing her brow, her cheeks. The helm grows hot, hotter, _hottest_, searing her palms. She cries out in pain but holds on, well aware an external source is responsible for this sudden powerful showing. Her struggle is with it, not her knight.

A chance remains; a blood spattered ace flutters from her sleeve to land on her knee. On it is a name written in bold blue calligraphy. She studies the forbidden name, rolls it around on her tongue, sensing its power, considering what it means before speaking it. She hesitates only a millisecond before opening her mouth, letting the name fly...

_"Lancelot"_

_Whoompf! _The knight falls back into the seat, as limp as a rag doll.She may as well have punched him in the solar plexus.

"Hurry," Dead Kid's voice is fraught with desperation.

The speakers squeal and screech their protest. But Allison hardly hears it. In the zone now, she chews her lower lip, pulls up on the helm, sees the grizzled stubble for the first time, the slack mouth, straight nose, high forehead and shock of matted, damp brown hair. His head lolls against the seatback as Allison lets the charred, cooling helm fall to the blood saturated carpet. She sets her hands gently on his shoulders.

"Open your eyes."

Her wish is his command. With some effort, he reveals the eyes that are that same cool blue as the gas flame. In another life, another world, she might have called them beautiful. But here they are red rimmed, bloodshot, frightened, crying out for...something.

The din from the speakers is deafening now, causing her head to pound. It feels as if hatchets are hacking an exit path through her skull. Fighting the urge to press her hands to her ears, she presses them against the sides of his face instead, fixes him with a hard stare for a few long moments before giving him one final command:

_"Run." _

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trio congregates outside House's office, gaping through the window like kids waiting for _Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe _to open. Wilson is next to Cuddy, who stands beside Doctor Edmund Gurand, one of three clinical psychologists on staff. In his mid-sixties, he is the elder of his group. And at six foot five, he might be the tallest physician in the hospital. His height lends him a air of Abe Lincoln-esque prominence. He is wise, well respected and can be somewhat grandfatherly in his quiet declarations. His thick silver-grey hair is longish, swept back from his brow to curl over his ears and brush the tip of the collar of his lab coat.

The group continues to observe their subject, who sits at his desk, running his thumb over his red and grey ball, his cupful of pens and a pile of medical journals. Ball, pens, journals, ball, pens, journals. It is a pattern he repeats over and over again.

"He shaved." Cuddy folds her arms, her voice is low, but not quite a whisper. "Got a haircut. Changed his jacket." She tilts her head, offers Gurand a questioning look. "Sat through a diagnostic this morning and was more focused than he's been over the past few days."

"Maybe he's getting back to himself," Wilson offers, although the slump of his shoulders and downtrodden air makes Cuddy think he doesn't quite believe it.

They both look to Gurand, who strokes his chin with a forefinger, narrowing his eyes as he gazes through the glass. "From what you've already told me, this abrupt 'getting back on track' sounds suspect, as if he's preparing for something momentous. Something life altering. I can't tell if this is a positive change until I talk with him."

"He won't." Wilson shakes his head and scoffs. "No way will he let anything out to you."

"He will if he doesn't want to risk me forcing a leave of absence on him." Cuddy says. "I can't have him here if he's not going to do his job."

"He's sly," Wilson says, "He'll make it look like he's doing his job, so no one will suspect he doesn't have his head on straight. Just like this morning-"

"Sure. This morning he was in rare form. But that was this morning," Cuddy says. "What about this afternoon and Monday, all of next week and the week after that?" Her heartbeat quickens. She sets a hand against her bosom, pausing to swallow and catch her breath. "He's not better and you and I know it." She fixes Wilson with a hard look. "He hasn't eaten, has he? Have you seen him in the cafeteria?"

"It doesn't matter anymore." Wilson wanders away from the window. When he reaches the wall, he turns to face them. "Go. Do what you want. I know you'll be out of that office within five minutes. You're wasting Dr. Gurand's time here. Just give House that slap on the wrist you're so eager to apply and send him home to think things over. Like that's supposed to fix everything." He throws them a dismissive wave with the back of his hand. "Go."

Cuddy heaves a weary sigh, lifts her hands and lets them fall to her sides. "What's your solution? Should we let him continue on like this? Maybe tomorrow he'll slice his other hand-"

"Maybe it _was_ an accident."

"So he says."

"There are all sorts of _accidents_," Gurand tells them gently. "Some more accidental than others."

Wilson bows his head and wraps his arms around his chest. _A defensive gesture_, Cuddy thinks. She doesn't have to be Edmund Gurand to see that. "So, Dr. Wilson," she says, "what do you think we should we do?"

Speaking slowly, he keeps his eyes averted, his head low. "Getting the name of his therapist would be an excellent start."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Run._

Some dreams never completely take their leave. Remnants stick like colorful Post-it notes to her clothes, her hair. She might peel a pink one off herself to find, another (this time orange or lime green) has taken its place.

_Lancelot..._

Each Post-it depicts a beautiful pencil drawing of the knight or the train, the two dead kids, the jewel encrusted sword--or a cozy shot of the entire group. But she has no time for this now. She needs to maintain her focus for the task at hand: one final meeting with Curtis Weir.

She pulls into the police station parking lot, then hurries up the steps, heels clicking purposefully against the concrete. Her first stop is the ladies room to fix her makeup and check her look. Frazzled since she woke, she managed to put on a good face for the girls at breakfast but could barely hide her anxiety from Joe. After years of dealing with her dreams and 'feelings', he can always tell what kind of mood she is in. He asked her more about the train and the knight, and she would have told him, but relating the experience before dealing with Weir wouldn't have done much for her already fragile state of mind.

So she kissed him, gave him her best brave smile, and left it at that.

The woman in the mirror is well dressed, professional, in her late thirties. Her shoulder length blonde hair is set in a fashionable yet simple style; her skin is fair, clear. Her cheeks are a bit too pink, and some would think she had been heavy handed with the blush. But the dream is the culprit, the reason for her high color, the wispy, troubled look in her eyes.

She reaches into her purse, finds her lipstick and uncaps it, then brings the wine colored tip to her lips.

_"_You did good_."_

Her fingers quake, causing her to almost drop the tube into the sink. Dead Kid stands behind her in the mirror, leaning against a stall. He shouldn't reflect, but he does.

_All in your mind, Ali._

"But it's not over yet." He shakes a forefinger at her as he fades. "Miles to go, Allison."

_Where are these dreams leading you_? she wonders, making her way out of the ladies room and back into the colorful world of law enforcement. Usually by this time in the great scheme of nocturnal wanderings, a sense of direction has been established. Some reason peeks out from its hidey-hole in her psyche. But this time, _this_ time the process is skewed, a true puzzlement. This time she is clueless.

Allison chides herself for complaining or _yamming, _as her mother might say. After all, she is making progress. The grand prize is now in her possession. Like Charlie Bucket claiming the golden ticket, she has been rewarded with a look at... the knight's face. Finally. Yeah...and? So what? No momentous revelation here. Recognition factor: nil, zip, zero. He might have preferred remaining that faceless Lancelot of her dreams. He fought her all the way, which means...

...which means...what?

This would be so much simpler if her dream had taken her one...step...further to throw her a name. Yeah, that would have really helped, since Mr. Blue Suit Jacket with a side of Sneakers is in a serious mess. From his reaction to the "Lancelot" prompt and her vision of his torn, bloody wrists, she assumes he is being set up to do himself harm. Could someone be forcing him to consider suicide? The notion seems far-fetched. But unless she is misinterpreting the vision, this poor guy's being twisted and turned to do just that. She shivers in the too warm reception area. Holds back a cringe as the stench of stale booze sends her a hearty welcome from derelict row by the wall.

If there were some way to load a dream onto a hard drive, shoot it out in an email to the proper authorities, she would be all set. Someone, somewhere would have a clue as to what it all means.

_Nah, not going to happen._

But wait. What if she describes this guy to the police sketch artist? Yes. Now that is an idea she can live with. Studying a well rendered image of the mystery man might open her up to another vision: one that will be of more help, bring her a few steps closer to knowing...

_...knowing what?_

"Hey, I hear New York, New York is a hell of a town." Scanlon taps his foot, standing by the entrance to the cells and interrogation rooms.

"Start spreadin' the news," she responds, hoping to sound glib but failing miserably. A sense of foreboding has crept up on her, causing her to look through Scanlon toward the next stop on the tour...

...where Weir is waiting.

------------------------------------------------------------

This time they are not alone. She has been forced to face him again in the company of the authorities. The only way he would agree to confess...to everything.

Weir's court appointed attorney sits beside him at that sad looking wooden table. The table has borne witness to more lies, excuses and pleas than anyone possessing a heart and mind. Maybe it's better to be that way: listen and absorb, keep that face wooden, stoic, never betray what you might think...or know.

She seats herself across from the brawny sociopath. The fact that his eyes lit up the moment she entered the room was not lost on her.

Scanlon stands behind her. She can hear the soft rustle of his suit jacket against his holster, smell the faint tobacco/aftershave scent that is uniquely his. It provides a small sense of comfort. Still...she shivers as Weir's too bright eyes caress her...everywhere. That mouth parts slowly to form a wide, toothsome grin.

"Hi Allison," he says, like he is greeting an old friend.

"Hello, Mr. Weir."

He claps his shackled hands and giggles. "I love when you say that."

The attorney clicks on the small cassette recorder that rests in the middle of the table. "Mr. Weir has agreed to give a full confession, asking only that his cooperation be taken into account if this case goes to trial both here and in Minnesota.

"I wish it could be just the two of us, like the last time, pretty Allie."

She returns his beatific grin with one that's humorless and flat.

"Get on with it, Weir," Scanlon growls.

"Say please...?" Weir's head tilts like a little boy begging his mom for a treat.

"Please," Allison replies for Scanlon.

Weir's eyes grow misty as he begins his recitation. Clouds settle in, like morning fog over a moss covered lake. He is gone, deep in the memory, seeing it, living it all again. Loving it. His words compete with breaths that come hard and fast. At times he is so flustered by his excitement, he needs to stop, twirl a strand of sweaty hair that has fallen across his brow, before picking up where he left off.

Most of his story is new to Allison; she is witnessing it for the first time.

_This is live, in color, just like being there! _

Yes. This is the ultimate, the Imax Theater version in high-res:

S_uch clarity, so vivid, it's just...like...you...are..._

she feels the force of every knife plunge...hears each shout out to 'Johnny' on the cell phone... watches trails of blood wind like lazy streams from living room to den to bath...studies the scarlet kissy-poo artwork on bedroom walls.

..._there._

Alexandra is here, standing, staring at her over Weir's right shoulder. She listens intently, her brows furrowing at the particularly graphic parts. Allison wishes she could grab the girl by the arm and lead her out into the corridor. But now Dead Kid is here too. He is a distraction, seated Indian style at the head of the table.

"You're wasting time here." His voice rises over Weir's gruesomely descriptive chatter.

Damn, but Weir is good. He could put Stephen King through the paces.

"This guy is a done deal," Dead Kid continues. "Want the spoiler alert?

Allison frowns, blinks and shrugs.

"He fries."

Her brows rise at the newsflash. Suddenly she is dressed to the nines, traveling in style on the Orient Express. Her hands are set gently but firmly against the cheeks of Blue Suit Jacket guy. This time she can feel the tickle of his stubble against her palms, smell the rich pungent scents of his blood and sweat.

..."Allison?

She gasps, grips the arms of her chair, waits for her heart to slow before she dares raise her head.

Wearing a benign smile, Weir waits too...

...almost as if...he knows.

"Do you have any questions for this guy?" Scanlon asks. The room is silent, except for a soft, tuneless noise emanating from Weir's throat.

Dead Kid takes Alexandra by the hand and leads her through the wall.

"Not for him," she murmurs, hoping the sketch artist isn't on a coffee break.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, well, well." Leaning back in his chair, House gives Cuddy and Gurand a tepid once over as they enter his office.

"House..."

"Not interested."

"Hou-use!"

"_Not _interested."

"Well, get interested." Cuddy crosses her arms and fumes. "We need to talk."

"Didn't Mommy ever tell you that touting your troubles door to door is very gauche. Not to mention dangerous?" There is not a trace of humor in his tone. "The bad crazy gimp might beat you senseless with his cane."

Cuddy exhales sharply and steps up to the desk. "_Damn _it, House, this is serious."

"Ah-ah-ah. You'll never get on the A-list using language like that, Mistress." He tosses his ball at the wall, catches it on the return bounce. "Besides, you must know some other poor schlub more worthy of a reprimand than me. Take for instance... Leaning over, he purses his lips and peers through the slats of the vertical blinds. "...the village wimp out there in the hallway."

"Wilson is worried about you."

House's left cheek twitches. "I get it. So that's why he's stalking me like my lone male groupie." He faces her again. "Why isn't he with the rest of the class?"

"After what happened in the diner he's a little...gunshy," she says, studying his eyes. He fixes her with a tolerant look, but something about him is skewed, like a clock with its hands running backwards. His banter is 'on', his tone just right. But she can tell most of his head is somewhere else, like something has a grip on his psyche, letting him out to play...for a little while.

"The diner...," he murmurs, tapping a finger against his stubble. His cheek twitches again. He runs his thumb across his lips, then stares out the blinds. "Hungry..."

"This is Dr. Gurand."

"Not interested."

Her eyes wander over his light stubble, the hair cut short and neat, the black suit jacket, freshly washed t-shirt, wondering if he cleaned himself up of his own accord. Was it his idea or might someone have placed a gentle suggestion in his ear?

His cheek jerks.

"Dr. Gurand is here to talk with you a bit."

"You're a psychologist," House spits the words out like an accusation, still staring out the blinds. "I have a therapist."

"Who are you seeing?" Gurand asks lightly.

House is silent, his mouth set in a bloodless line. His head turns like a clock's second hand (_one...two...three...four)_. He stops, glares at Gurand, rubbing his thumb against the forefinger of his hurt hand.

"That's okay. You don't have to say."

"You don't have to tell me that. I can do what I want, say what I want." He nods his head, his fingers roving lightly over the pens in the cup. "I do my job."

"It was a simple courtesy, a matter of respect." Gurand's smile is tight and small.

Why are you here?" House asks.

"Just to talk."

"I do my job."

"Yes, you do." Gurand pulls out the chair opposite the desk.

"Don't get too comfortable."

Gurand rests his hands on the back of the chair and remains standing. "Would you like to talk about what happened to your hand?"

House lifts his bandaged left hand, holds it out in front of him as if noticing it for the first time.

"Did you have an accident?" Gurand's words are light, airy, flittering and fluttering as if dancing lightly over eggshells.

"I do my job."

"That wasn't the question."

House folds his hands in front of him, furrowing his brow as if preparing for a consult. "I have a therapist. He is my friend. He taught me how to stop the pain."

Gurand drums his fingers once against the back of the chair. "That's a good thing, Dr. House. Pain management is important. But..." He glances at Cuddy, who offers him a pained look and a quick little shrug. "...a therapist is not a friend."

"Get out."

Something tugs at Cuddy's insides, like whatever has House in its grip is giving her a sweet little warning: _He's my dance partner now. He does his job, plays the game, cleans himself up nice to face the crowd. But...he's mine._

"Who is he, House?" she blurts out.

His cheek twitches. Those vacant eyes take her in and spit her out. "Get...out."

"Alright." She folds her arms across her chest. _Tough Love, tough love. _"If you're not going to cooperate with Dr. Gurand, you can leave."

Gurand touches her arm, his mouth twists opens and closes before he gets out the words. "Dr. Cuddy..."

"...take the weekend to get your head together. When you come back Monday, you will either cooperate or we're going to have an even more serious problem..."

House keeps a grim watch on her as eases himself out of his chair. He grips his cane then grabs his pack from the shelf behind his desk. Slinging it over his shoulder, he brushes past her and Gurand, and ambles out the door. He _step-thumps_ down the corridor at breakneck speed and disappears around the corner. Through the glass, Cuddy catches Wilson's panicked, befuddled look just before he takes off in House's direction.

Shaking his head, Gurand sighs grimly, fixing Cuddy with a reproachful look. "You shouldn't have let him go."

"Sometimes he's got to be told. He has got to learn..."

"Dr. Cuddy," Gurand's look turns to one of pained regret, "you may have just seen the last of him."


	14. Skyscrapers And Everything

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**-14-**

"Skyscrapers...And Everything"

There are times House chides him for running like a girl. _Well, hell, maybe that's true_, Wilson thinks, zipping along with lithe, quick ease past nurses, orderlies, three kinds of doctors, four varieties of surgeons. _A virtual Baskin & Robbins assortment of healthcare professionals here at Princeton-Plainsboro. _He can't help the way he runs. Hey, at least he _can_ run.

_Dammit._

He is panting by the time he catches up with House at the elevator banks, rewarded for his trouble with a sharp, stony glare...then nothing.

"Where are you going?" Wilson lifts his hands in exasperation as the elevator dings and slides open.

House stands aside, glowering at the thundering herd as it debarks. Pushing through the stragglers, he boards, throwing Wilson a caustic leer. Seething, Wilson bobs on the balls of his feet as two interns saunter slowly past him. They have no idea they're blocking his way. Are they friggin' sleepwalking? Do they need a taser zap in they butt? It's like they're out for a _goddamn _midday stroll. Somehow he manages to shoot forward, nearly ramming them both into the wall. He mutters a vague apology as he wedges his shoulder between the doors just in time to stop them from sliding shut. With a grunt, he squeezes through and stumbles into the car. The doors slide open again. Gifting House with a tight lipped nod, Wilson takes his place beside him.

"Stop following me," House says, staring straight ahead.

The doors close.

Wilson plants his hands on his hips. "So did you walk out in a snit or did Cuddy send you home to 'get your head together'?"

House hugs his helmet closer to his body...

..._like a talisman, _Wilson thinks.

House leans over to punch the "L" button, and the car begins its smooth descent. His mouth twitches, his tongue trails along the bristle just below his lower lip. "I don't want to talk to you."

"That's getting pretty old, House." Wilson glides toward the buttons, feigning great interest in the aluminum frame around the control panel. A quick tour: here we have the 'call for help' phone in case anyone has a coronary between floors, the emergency 'stop' button for those who need to be coerced into conversing in a normal, everyday-

Something whizzes by his ear before _thwacking_ hard into the wall by his head. The hairs on the nape of his neck stand at attention as he whips around to see House wielding the cane that almost put him on the floor.

A corner of House's lip curls. He snickers...just a little. Wickedly snide or not, this is not House, but an amazing replica of the genuine article. "Don't be stupid," the imposter says.

Stunned, Wilson stands frozen to the spot, thinking of the best way to respond.

House cheek _tics_ once, then _tics_ once more for good measure. "Trapping me in an elevator would be a complete waste of your time and mine." He raises one brow, thumps the tip of his cane on the floor. "Especially mine, since the mistress gave me the day. Got places to go, people to see."

Frowning, Wilson removes his hand from the control panel as his old pal futility claps him on the back. They are more than friends now. Brothers are what they have become.

The car reaches its destination; its doors slide open.

The guy he considers his best bud has shut him out, locked the windows, twisted the deadbolt. The eyes that at times twinkle with mischief, or darken in moody contemplation have gone dry, flat. Dead.

"I do believe I hear the squeal of a malignant melanoma." House cups a hand to his ear as he moves into the lobby. "It's pining for you."

"House..."

"Better hop to it." Those dead eyes widen as they meet Wilson's distressed gaze. "There are rumors those things are pret-ty darn deadly."

"Let's go back to my office," Wilson inwardly cringes at the plea in his tone. "We can talk there."

"Quit being my shadow. Leave me alone. Go back to work." He hitches his pack a little higher on his shoulder. "I don't want to talk to you."

Over the next forty-eight hours, this moment will play over and over in Wilson's head, haunting him, insinuating itself into his dreams. It is the moment House's '_I don't want to talk to you' _mantra lost its programmed, automaton quality, becoming an absolute truth spoken from the heart. The hard realization will hit him--this is the moment House became completely and utterly lost to him.

House weaves through the crowded lobby toward the exit with Wilson close behind. They are outside now, early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky. Wilson can't recall the last time he'd been outside the hospital at 1:15 on a Friday.

Despite House's dismissive diatribe, Wilson tails him to his bike, watches helplessly as House fits the helmet over his head and buckles the strap. He fits the cane into its sheath on the back of the bike, then tucks his pack into his saddle bag.

"Come back inside, House." Wilson tries. "I'll talk to Cuddy. She'll reconsider."

"Get a life." The key is turned, the motor revs and growls.

Wilson thinks he also hears the words "forget about me" before House roars off. But he can't be absolutely sure.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is hungry, but he's not hungry. At least he shouldn't be. It's not time to eat. That's a no-no until later. He has three hours before he can even consider it. It is then he will drive to the diner, order the right food. Eat it exactly as he is supposed to.

But it wasn't always that way, was it?

_Noooo._

When did it start...being that way?

_Dunno._

He shouldn't be asking himself these questions, now should he?

_Nooo._

Oops.

_Okay, then. What shall we do?_

House wanders out of the living room, down the hall to the bedroom, backtracks, peers into the bathroom, as if something might crawl from the drain to amuse and delight him. When that doesn't happen, he roams to the desk, lets his fingers wander over the phone, linger on an unopened bag of sour fruit Jelly Bellys (not...now), and the PC. He considers immersing himself in a game. He has a fleeting memory of signing up to play _World Of Warfare _online. When was that? The software rests by the computer under a copy of _Us Weekly_, three issues of the _Journal of American Medicine, _and ten or twelve pieces of unopened mail. He spends some time staring at the spine of the game, rubbing his brow, then pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

The vague memory flies. Maybe he was just...thinking, imagining, putting himself in another place, the way Bill taught him. Suddenly the memory doesn't seem like a memory at all. He closes his eyes.

_Breathe. Think. Imagine._

No. _World of Warfare _was just a lark, something he thought sounded like fun a long time ago.

_Just as well. You don't want to play swords and sorcery with a bunch of Lancelot and Guinevere wannabes._

He scoffs and mutters, "Lancelot", glares at the PC like it might throw lightning bolts at him, then heads for the sofa. It is a comfortable place. Here he might relax, think, maybe remember...

He freezes in the middle of the living room, his cane tip punctuating the sudden stop with a sharp _bump _against the hardwood. He looks around as though he has forgotten something.

Lately his memory has been skewed. _A loose wire somewhere in the mix_. He pictures that wire whipping and sparking through the dense canals of his grey matter. Sometimes it conjures up odd images, things that never could never have happened. Dreams? No, not dreams. Dreams break apart into a blur of color and images, fluttering out of reach like sparrows flying from a malevolent, grasping hand. No. Lately when he is at rest, he falls into these...states, finding himself in a place too real to be the stuff of sleeptime meanderings. Although he can't recall many details, the images he does remember are strong: captured seconds, minutes, moments on a train...heat inside of...armor...blood...pouring...jagged cuts...wrist...the woman...in red...like...blood

Ghosts.

Perhaps he should tell Bill, since Bill Faulkner is, after all, his only real true friend.

_Run._

Two fingers of his right hand rub absently at his left palm. The gauze is gone now. The wound is protected by a large economy size bandage. The gash no longer pains him; in a couple of days it will be almost completely healed. Amazingly he only needed one stitch, which he will remove later today. It wasn't as bad as he thought.

_What happened to your hand, Doctor?_

Metal...cold...sharp...slice..._in_...deep. The blood...the _blood._

_Breathe. Run..._

His head jerks up; his leg serenades him with a brash concerto of pain. He grunts, limping toward the sofa as he checks his watch. It happened again. He lost time. Two hours gone while he stood silent and still in the center of the room.

He winces, easing himself onto the sofa, right hand rubbing right thigh. No time, no energy, no desire to put himself in that other place to ease the pain. Bill will be disappointed.

_Why tell him?_

Fiery sharp needles stab his right thigh, once, twice, again_. Again_. The pain is so exquisite, he can only bite his lower lip, squeeze his eyes shut and rock up and back to ride it out. Gradually it eases, throbbing in tandem with the pounding in his temples. He moans, digs into his jacket pocket and grasps the vial, so thankful for the comforting jiggle of pills against plastic. He feels the tension leave his shoulders; but his leg cranks the agony level up again; yeah, that pain knows it is about to be put down like a boxer on the ropes. One-two-three...

Closing his eyes, he presses three pills against his lips, draws them into his mouth with his tongue, savors their bitterness for a moment before letting them leave on their journey.

_Bye, bye. So long..._

"Good idea" he says after moments, hours, eons. His words are slurred, his thoughts drift, consorting with the fog. Time has been controlling him lately. He wonders what it would be like to take charge of himself again: to run from everything, everyone: Cuddy, Gurand, his team...Wilson...

...Wilson.

Bill?

Something stirs his innards, a toxic mix of guilt, fear and anxiety does its magic, transforming the Vicodin haze into wisp thin tendrils of nothing. His head clears, thoughts sharpen as he levers himself up, gazes with vague interest at his watch. It's late, almost four. Time to go.

The phone rings.

He ambles past it to retrieve the jacket he tossed on the bed.

It rings again.

_Let's see...it could be Wilson, Cuddy, Doc Gurand wanting to add another notch to his psych belt..._

and once more.

He shrugs on his jacket. Now the cell phone in his pocket shudders against his left thigh...

_...again and again and..._

"I don't want to talk to you!" he shouts, wrenching the phone from his pocket. It vibrates warm against his wound and he almost looks at it, almost flips it open.

_You should, you know. It could be important. People are worried about you. They'll come here looking for you..._

He tightens his fingers around it, strangling it, squeezing the life from it. He draws back his arm like Nolan Ryan on a good day, and hurls the phone into the kitchen. It smashes against the stove, shards of black plastic skitter across the linoleum, scattering under the butcher block table and the dishwasher. Gone. Goodbye.

Silence.

_El telefono? Ah, she is 'ow you say...demised, an ex-wireless instrument of communication._

So dead.

_That wasn't right, Greg. You need that phone to do your job._

And suddenly, the guilt is so intense, so relentless, his only reaction is to laugh. The giggles arrive first, trickling from his throat and mouth in a happy little parade. Soon they are shoved away by the big guns: raucous, booming, pull out the stops guffaws. Tears spring to his eyes and he stumbles back into the door to keep his balance. The house phone rings again. "I don't...want...to...talk to you!" he sing /shouts through his breathless chortling.

He grasps the doorknob and waits for the ringing to stop. It takes a while. Whoever is on the other end is damn persistent.

_You could kill that sucker too. Make sure it never rings again._

No. He needs at least one phone, doesn't he? What if he wants to order a pizza or Chinese?

_We don't do that anymore, do we, Greg?_

He considers this, as guilt skitters like around his innards like a frightened cockroach.

_No. We don't._

Checking his watch, he realizes with a start he is already off schedule, late for the diner.

At this rate he will be late for his appointment too.

_Bill will be unhappy. Maybe that was him on the phone. You should have answered. Go look at the caller ID. He's going to be so unhappy. Better hurry, better go. Go NOW._

"I do my job," he proclaims to the silent room, then holds his head with one hand, ducking as if expecting a bomb to burst through the ceiling.

_You are so pathetic, so wracked with guilt. Serves you right. You know why? Because what goes around comes around, idiot. You owe the world. _

He straightens his shoulders, takes a sharp breath as his throat constricts. Something is bubbling up from his entrails. He pictures it: steaming black liquid: bilious as a snake chopped and liquefied by thousands of shimmering, dancing blades. The room tilts. Suddenly, laughter spews from him again, horribly, like a madman has come for tea and overstayed his welcome. He rides with it, hunching over like Quasimodo, hobbling around the room, willing it to stop, to leave him. He finally makes a deal, trades in the jocularity for a spate of strangled sobs as...

...he thinks about dinner; then abruptly... of New York City.

..._skyscrapers...and everything... _

The last of his tears slides down his cheeks, he swipes them away with two impatient scrubs of his hand.

He thinks about numbered avenues, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh. He likes the order, the ease of navigation. Can't really get lost, unless you want to

_lose yourself_

It would be easy lose himself and find himself all in the space of a week. An unscheduled vacation.

_Unscheduled? You can't be serious. That's wrong, just the prattle of a tired mind. You need the kind of rest only Best Friend Bill can give, ol' son. Face it, you'll_

He never takes vacation. But this time...

_cause more trouble than you're worth. They'll come looking for you, banging on the door, so worried, concerned..._

...the thought of neon lights, a small hotel room off midtown, of anonymity sounds delicious...

...delicious. He checks his watch again. 4:30. Time to eat.

_You want to lose yourself? Fine. In your condition, don't be surprised if it's a one way trip, boyeee. _

Hunger gnaws at him. He touches his stomach, then checks his pocket for his keys (check), his wallet, (check), his cell (all gone). No matter. He will eat, make a stop at the store, drop off his wares here, pack a small bag, and leave on an unscheduled trip.

_Really?_

Yeah, really, he tells himself, heading toward the door with purposeful, unwieldy strides.

_You'll be groveling back, old man. Crawling like the wretch you are._

He pulls open the door, walks out, clicks it shut, testing it to make sure it locks good and tight. He hobbles into the waning daylight and stands in the middle of the sidewalk. Raising his face to the sky, he squints into the deepening blue. The late afternoon sunshine warms his brow, his cheeks. Feels good. He savors it for a moment, allows his lip to curl into a tight, careful grin.

_Yeah, go ahead and smile, wiseass. You ain't never gonna survive this._

"I don't want to talk to you," he mutters. His cheek twitches, head jerking slightly to the left as he follows the sidewalk to his bike.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Allison remembers what it was like when she was young: this almost surreal sense of excitement: a strange butterfly flutter in the pit of the stomach, like a symptom of some otherworldly malady. Combine this with a demon called Anticipation, you have a most delicious sort of torture.

It is easy to see how excitement and anticipation have claimed her eldest daughters' souls. The trip is all they talk about--to each other and to Marie, who grins and claps her hands at her sisters' frenetic chatter. "Silly," she squeals at them.

Knowing something extraordinary is just around the bend, out of sight, out of reach yet _there, _well, it's just too cruel. Life is so different for the young. So much of it is just..._wow_. The promise of a trip to New York on a _plane _is thrilling. It's like nothing they've ever experienced. And since they have no frame of reference, Allison has tried to downplay their excitement. What if they are not suitably impressed? After all, dealing with a pair of moping, apathetic siblings a few thousand miles from home would not be much fun for anyone. But the dynamic duo are not yet old enough to be jaded and still young enough to be easily amused. The bright lights, tall buildings, and the overall hustle and bustle are sure to keep them enthralled.

Allison gives optimism a solid try, despite what she's been through over the past few days. It will be good to get away from thoughts of Weir, the knight, her job. Everything. Plus, she can't deny being just a bit excited herself.

Sitting at the kitchen table, smoothing her palms over the lightly wrinkled photocopy before her, she can't help grinning. Joe is in the girls' room, doing his best to convince them to at least try to get some sleep. He reads from their favorite bedtime story book _One Hundred Three Minute Sleepytime Tales. _Allison can almost hear the roll of Ariel's eyes. She maintains she is much too old for such silliness, yet on a normal night, she will lay with slitted eyes and become as engaged in the stories as Bridget and Marie.

Allison certainly understands. She was the same way.

There is magic in stories. Imagination is a key factor in what makes childhood such a unique and innocent place. But that innocence is not easy to preserve. And for her girls' sakes, she can't allow what remains of their innocence to turn to naiveté. It is unfortunate they have to learn about the bad stuff, the bad people. If she could, she would protect them forever. But the best she and Joe can do is teach them the basics of street smarts.

On occasion, life truly does suck.

She sighs, brushing her hair from her eyes, and studies the page again.

The Phoenix police department is fortunate to have Ernst Welk as their primary sketch artist. The man is so extraordinarily patient, so detail oriented, Allison wonders if he suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Ernst hadn't been interested in the whys and wherefores of her person of interest, just the shape of the eyes, the length of the hair, were the earlobes long, short, medium? How wide was the bridge of the nose? What would Ernst have thought if he knew where she had come across this distraught looking soul? It doesn't matter now, Allison thinks, pressing her glass of white wine to her brow. Cool. Nice. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to relax. The paper crinkles under her fingers, forcing her to look at it again. The rendering of the Knight, Lancelot, whoever he is (she really needs that name) is chilling in its perfection.

Those eyes are wide and staring, bluest of blue. She knows the color, despite the fact that this is a pencil sketch. Ernst didn't need colors to catch the misery, the guilt, the pain. The knight's short brown hair is threaded through with silver-grey. It is unkempt, sticking up in tufts. She senses that even on the best of days, his appearance is not his number one priority. Look at that stubble: he certainly doesn't wear it to emulate the forced casualness of a Miami Vice cop. No. This guy just doesn't like to shave. His mouth is partially open, his front teeth and the tip of his tongue just barely visible, like he's got so much to say but something is holding him back.

Something...

Her reverie is broken by the sound of running. One of the kids is on the way. Not Ariel. She's much too cool to run in the house. Marie? Doubtful. Those footfalls draw nearer, pounding the carpet like muffled explosions. _Bridget_, Allison thinks, smiling again. Yes, Bridget appears in the kitchen, feet slapping hard against the linoleum. She plows into the back of Allison's chair, then wraps her arms around her mom's neck.

"What are you doing?" Bridget asks. She smells like baby powder and toothpaste.

"What are _you _doing?" Allison twists her head, and her nose touches the cool, smooth skin of her daughter's cheek.

"Everyone fell asleep," she grumps, pulling out the chair next to Allison and seating herself with a _harrumph. _"Can you believe it?"

"They're tired, Bridge." Allison folds her arms across the sketch. "We've got a big day tomorrow."

"So we should all be asleep. Even you." Leaning forward, Bridget's brows raise as she plants a stubby finger on the paper. "Who's that?"

"Oh." Allison smoothes a hand over Bridget's hair. "He's a man mommy's trying to find."

"How come?" Bridget's on her knees now, turning her head this way and that to get a better look.

"I think he's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Allison makes her tone as light as a wisp of her daughter's blonde curls. "I'm not sure yet, Bridge."

"Really?" Pouting, Bridget furrows her brow, which makes her look like a wise little professor. "He's afraid."

"Mmm, could be." Allison folds the paper once, twice, three times and tucks it into the pocket of her robe. The original is with Devalos, who has promised to look into contacting the FBI about getting an ID on the guy. When he gets a chance. "Time for bed, honey."

"He's going to New York," Bridget says brightly, hopping off the chair.

Sometimes Bridget _knows _things, just like Ariel _knows_ things, just like their mom _knows_ things. In this case, Allison doubts her daughter's revelation holds a shred of truth.

"Maybe that's because _you're_ going there."

"Nope," Bridget responds with an adamant shake of her head. "_That _is just a co-in-see-dence"

"Good word, Bridge." Allison kisses the top of her head and walks her down the hallway. "Go to sleep now."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Daddy fell asleep in my bed, right in the middle reading of _Roger's Very Bad Dream _to us." She ticks off one finger at a time. "First Ariel, then Marie, then Daddy. It got very lonely in there."

"I'm sorry to hear that." They stop by the bedroom door. Joe's snoring is inordinately loud, breaking up the quiet. She is surprised the girls can sleep through it. "Go wake your daddy."

"Maybe we'll see him there."

"Who?"

"The man in your picture. Maybe we'll see him in New York."

"I don't-"

"We can invite him for lunch. Maybe that will cheer him up." Bridget plants a finger on her chin, her eyes raised to the ceiling as she seems to mull this over. "I wonder if he likes hot dogs."

Before Allison can open her mouth to respond, Bridget rushes into the room. Dashing to the bed, Bridget taps her small fingers hard against Joe's collarbone, wrenching him from sleep. He jerks upright, rubs his eyes. _One Hundred Three Minute Sleepytime Tales _falls to the floor. Beside him, Ariel and Marie stir.

"Come on, girls. Get into your beds," Allison calls softly from the doorway, "and Daddy sleepyhead will join Mommy and we'll all get some shuteye."

Joe grunts, moving off the bed, plodding behind her to their room. "G'night," he mumbles, slipping under the blankets and falling back to sleep almost immediately. She stands, watching him, her hand dipping into her pocket almost of its own volition. The drawing crinkles at her touch.

_Miles to go, Allison. _Dead Kid's voice plays in her head. She wishes he would give her a break, leave her alone for the duration of her week off. Somehow she doesn't think he cares. He has his own agenda. But so does she.

She removes the drawing from her pocket, places it in her purse that is hanging on the doorknob. She can't help wonder about Lancelot. What is he up to? Has he made progress beating back his demons? Really, it shouldn't matter.

But it does.


	15. Parting Gifts

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Many thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88**

**-15-**

"Parting Gifts"

Shopping is fun. It is one pursuit he doesn't mind doing on his own. Food shopping, clothes shopping, it's all good. He particularly enjoys browsing here. The carpets are clean, the staff leaves him alone. No music, very little chatter. He can stay all day and it would be alright.

Digging deep into his wallet is the only pothole on the road to 'obtaining'. If someone else could foot the bill today, his world would be a happier place. But that is not going to happen.

He likes having nice stuff: twelve thousand dollar guitars, two hundred dollar Nikes, hundred dollar suit jackets, drawers filled with sixty dollar Barking Irons t-shirts. The clothes look like shit on him but, what the hell? He likes wearing them anyway.

_You do?_

He used to. Not long ago, wearing expensive clothes made him feel special. Now he doesn't think anything could make him feel special again: not his style, his diagnostic talents, his way with a metaphor...

_Cursed._

House ducks his head, averts his gaze from the salespeople, the customers. It doesn't help. They see him, judge him. They know he's guilty.

_Easy to tell, isn't it, old man? Your kind sticks out like a leper in a Safe Room. _

He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, looks at the basket in his hand. It is almost full. Heavy. He feels

_heavy._

The hamburger wasn't any good. Greasy. Wrong. The shake was too thin. Fries were soggy. The apple pie was too sweet, its crust as tasteless as corrugated cardboard. Of course it was. He missed _his_ diner with its wheelchair ramp and the potted palm by the cash register and Maggie the waitress. The food in _his_ diner was always perfect, like it was cooked up in some mystical fashion just for him. He missed it, craved it.

_Go now..._

He couldn't go. It was all the way in Trenton and he wasn't going to Trenton today.

_You should...be...there right...now._

"No," he mutters. "No, no, no."

He hauls the basket to the desk, where the clerk places it on the floor next to the one he had left with her earlier.

"Is that it, sir?"

The side of the girl's left nostril is pierced. A silver stud shines from the hole, like a miniscule star winking...shimmering, catching the light in a thousand different ways each time she moves her head.

_Beautiful..._

Sir?" She is talking to him but her gaze is traveling, seeking out someone...

At his side, House's fingers flex of their own volition, yearning to touch the star, feel its heat as it shines. _Bright, brighter, brightest. _He observes the scene like he is outside his body, watches as his hand floats up, up, then moves forward like a hot air balloon on a sleepy summer day. The girl's eyes go wide, that pretty pink mouth forming a garbled mess of words. His fingers hover just inches from the star, the light, that brilliance-

A heavy hand grips his shoulder.

_Bill? Bill's found you. _

He shudders, then relaxes, hoping the hand doesn't go away.

_Of course he's found you_. _A cursed man is easy to track down. __A cursed man has a certain stink..._

House's relief is palpable, flowing in soft billows over the quiet store. Safe now, he lets his hand drop to his side; he can forget about the star. He can rest, drift away.

"What's the problem here?"

_This is not Bill..._

"Sir!" The hand on his shoulder shakes him just a bit, causing his head to go as wobbly as a bobble-head doll.

_No. This is not Bill..._

Disappointment wrenches him this way, that way and down, bringing him back to earth as he turns slowly toward the voice. A security guard with bad skin and a chipped front tooth is trying his best to come off like the most badass cop on the force. He looks more like a pissed off Elmer Fudd with acne. His hand continues to make its home just above House's collarbone.

"You okay...sir?"

"Yeah...yeah. I'm sorry." House commands his muddled mess of a brain to cooperate. "I'm...on medication." He removes the vial of pills from his jacket, gives it a couple of half-hearted shakes before stowing it away.

Everyone's watching him, ogling him, _judging_ him. Haven't they ever seen a guy who's cursed before?

_They're just glad they're not you, old man._

"It's alright," the girl says gently, as if speaking to a child. She raises her hands in a placating gesture. "Let me ring up your stuff."

The line behind House has taken on a life of its own, snaking around the corner. Its components mutter and grouse, a few throwing House icy leers. A woman in her sixties comes to the rescue, tromping behind the desk and opening the second register. The line splits in the middle like an earthworm under a knife. The first half swings to the right, forming a new queue as the sour faced woman begins ringing and bagging. She seems beleaguered, put upon, like she has been wrenched away from a much more important task.

The basket on the counter is overflowing The cashier shifts it sideways, causing a few items to slip off the top and fall behind the desk. She sighs, purses her lips as she retrieves the merchandise from the floor, then stacks everything into a nice neat pile.

"Don't forget about the other basket." A corner of House's mouth lifts as he waves his Amex Gold Card at her. He feels relaxed, suddenly playful. The silver stud has lost its hold on him, for the moment.

"Everything okay now?" Elmer asks.

"You have Acne Rosacea," House informs him abruptly, his eyes still on the cashier. "How long?"

"Huh?"

House turns, gives the guard's face a lingering look. "How long have you had it?"

Elmer's Looney Toons glower leaves him. He seems flummoxed now, his piggy eyes narrowing as his mouth forms a perfect circle. "I don't know, I guess-"

"You ever use over the counter creams for that ravaged tundra you call your face?"

"Yeah." Elmer's hand leaves House's shoulder, its fingers gingerly exploring one cheek's marred landscape.

"You're going to need a prescription," House says. "Tretinoin, maybe Isotretinoin, if what you have is severe enough."

Elmer shrugs. "No insurance."

"Go to Princeton-Plainsboro. They have a free clinic, which you would know if you had any smarts at all."

"You a doctor?"

"No. I'm chief chef at the Waldorf."

Elmer's brows lift. "Yeah?"

"You're a moron and you're boring. " House scowls at him. "I'm done talking to you."

Elmer opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it. Hanging his head, he saunters away.

Pimply faced guard forgotten, House leans forward, his voice deep and low as he murmurs to the cashier, "I could use some help getting this stuff to my car." Lifting his cane, he winks. "War wound. Horrible. I was lucky I survived."

_Too bad the last vestiges of your charm had to be wasted on this young 'un. Pity your magical essence is down to the dregs. You might need more than that where you're headed..._

The cashier's cheeks go red. House smiles, realizing with a jolt he hasn't felt guilty or regretful or afraid for over five minutes...

...which, in his world, is a true accomplishment.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the desk, two broken pencils lay side by side: four pieces total. Something is wrong; something is a tiny bit skewed. _Can't have that, can we?_ He shifts the pieces on the far right a hair's breadth to the left. Yes. Now that's better.

An hour earlier, he had wrenched these innocuous Number Two pencils from his pen cup and snapped them in half. Now they are splintered, jagged and vicious looking. Frustration, anger, panic, the _not knowing _overtook him. It won the round, getting the best of him, forcing him to act in this impulsive (and abhorrent) manner. Disheartened, he stares at the ruined implements, imagines stabbing the splintered ends into his eye. You can blind yourself, if you do it just right. He pictures those angry shards protruding from the paper thin skin of his eyelid, a fitting punishment for his own stupidity; his own carelessness.

Anxiety does strange things to Bill, gives him odd thoughts, even odder dreams. It is his psyche's way of saying, "Boo! I told you so."

Twelve knives rest on the edge of the desk, their blades accusatory, mocking, putting the blame where it belongs. At his side, leaning against his chair like a faithful companion, the jewel encrusted sword stands at the ready. Tonight was to be the night, the sword was going to be passed on to Greg. The session was to be the penultimate and tomorrow, the doctor would be gone.

_Well, looks like he checked out early._

Faulkner sighs, sets his elbows on the desk, resting his chin in his hands, steering his mind into therapist mode. He refuses to allow panic to invade his thoughts, will allow no mental meanderings of doom. He will sit, think, and reason the problem out.

What could have kept Greg from his appointment? Faulkner grabs a pen and pulls a yellow legal pad from his middle drawer, numbering the possibilities. An accident? Yes, certainly, seeing how distracted he has been lately. Had guilt forced him into hiding or better still, had it persuaded him to call it a day? Hang it up? Face the dying of the light? Or was he confronted by some sort of outside influence: a boss? a hospital psychiatrist?

_Wilson?_

The wastebasket peeks at him from beneath the desk. Since Greg's last appointment, it hasn't been moved or emptied. Five pens wink up from the bottom, five silver, shimmering pens lying amongst the debris. He should really gather them up and place them in his drawer. But they are Wilson's pens. Faulkner feels more secure letting them stay where they are. It makes him believe he still wields a modicum of power over Greg, even though...

_...even though._

Mother would have called this situation another _stickety wicket. _Yes, it is that. But at the same time, it is more a frustrating setback than a reason to give up. Greg will most likely do himself harm anyway (if he hasn't already), even without the final little push. The overriding guilt, the break from his regularly scheduled programming will slowly wear him down, down, down.

But Faulkner yearns to bear witness to the man's demise; he deserves that much. If Johnny can't be there, Best Friend Bill certainly should.

Johnny enjoyed the webcam session, got a great sense of 'his own back', even more than when he carried that pistol into the hospital and used it. The thought of this still causes Faulkner to shake his head in wonder. It is amazing what people will do if pushed hard enough.

Earlier, Johnny phoned with an update on his whereabouts. He and Sara were already in Montreal. Their fake IDs got them over the border with no problem. Today they are settled temporarily in a hostel. Tomorrow they will look for a small apartment, then seek some menial work to get them through the coming weeks. Hopefully they will be able to return to the States after everything has calmed down, not to Minnesota, of course. According to news reports, the house they shared with Weir has been ransacked by the police. The decoy PC hard drive Johnny left behind is probably with the FBI by now. Johnny's real computer has been trashed by experts. Faulkner made the arrangements for it to be destroyed properly. No sense leaving the eradication of truly damning evidence to amateurs.

The conversation has stuck in Faulkner's head throughout the day, a friendly reminder that their plan has not gone totally belly up.

He tries calling Greg again, ringing the cell phone until it goes to voice mail. He clicks off without leaving a message, then tries the apartment phone, which rings on and on into eternity. Greg must have turned off his answering machine. Smart move, conscious or not. If Greg was at home, alone in the apartment, it would have been so easy to flip the switch in his head, convince him to eagerly await Best Friend Bill's arrival.

_But it is not to be, which is a shame. You should have given the guy a lot more credit. He might be desperate, confused and guilt ridden, but he's not stupid. _

Switching gears to calm himself, he thinks about Dorie Ann, the lovely thirtysomethng literature professor he met at _Renaldo's_ three weeks ago. Since then, they've had a few drinks, a long, engrossing conversation. All very casual. But her attraction to him is growing. Faulkner knows the signs and will eventually enjoy her in whatever way strikes his fancy. He has 'skills', as the kids would say. His charm and talent for seduction make up for the fact he is bald, paunchy and over fifty.

Two nights ago, after a long session with Greg, Faulkner took Dorie Ann out for a real date: dinner at Torrelli's in Soho complete with candlelight, Bordeaux, and world class food. Gianni Torrelli was an old friend, a trusted confidante, one who could sense when Faulkner was on the make. Torrelli also knew how deftly Faulkner could work his magic on the woman in question.

_Yes, mad seduction skills, like a snake writhing, dancing, honey-slow, erotic. She doesn't realize you've closed in on her until you've coiled yourself around her neck. Your flickering tongue tastes her, tests her. By then she's too far gone to care_..

It would be just a matter of time before Dorie Ann asked Faulkner to spend the night. He wouldn't suggest it. No sense in that. Let the game linger, heat up to melt them both down, so that when the time for sex did come, the experience would be that much more extraordinary.

For Faulkner, the real thrill was in the hunt. Bedding his prey was fun, but afterwards, he tended to grow bored. He rarely found a woman exceptional enough to make him want to continue the relationship indefinitely. And without a challenge, dating just wasn't...enjoyable, which is why he decides against calling Dorie tonight. Let her wait, think about him, want him. Faulkner smiles and rubs his thumb along the tip of the jewel encrusted sword, deciding to take a drive to Princeton instead.

No telling what he might discover on Baker Street.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House is breathless after hauling the last of his purchases in from the car. Three brown shopping bags sit in the center of his living room. House gazes at them in turn, like each is a brilliant, talented, _perfect_ child. He feels good, welcoming a rare sense of accomplishment as it washes over him. What does it matter that his leg throbs or his head aches or that what he would really like to do is settle himself on the sofa with a beer? He is working, progressing, onward, upward.

_You are delusional. Why don't you check your phone messages? What if Bill called? You need to talk to him, tell him your plans. He'll be so worried. After all he's done for you, you treat him this way? After all he's done- _

Laughing lightly, House hefts the first bag and dumps its contents onto the coffee table. Wow, so many. But that's good, very good. The act of picking them up and placing them in his basket was an odd sort of therapy. The repetitiveness, the over and over, made him feel safe, warm, secure.

_Breathe._

He recalls the rhythm, starts to sway along with it then stops himself so abruptly, he nearly careens backwards.

Taking a deep breath, he gathers his items together into a manageable pile, and brings them to the sofa to begin his task. With great care, he lines them against the cushions, then stands back to scrutinize his handiwork. It is a good start.

His thigh begs to differ. Deep within that ruined limb, something electric begins to stir. Soon pain is swirling inside his leg like a razor edged pinwheel. He closes his eyes against it, hoping to find some comfort in the velvet black. Instead he is rewarded with red and blue fireworks, white hot sparks.

House opens his eyes. His friends on the couch have not moved. They sit judging him in stony silence. Again his leg cries out.

_The pain goes when they do._

Tough nuts. He grips his thigh...

_Like that's going to do any good._

...as he grabs the vial from his jacket.

_Not even going to try to ride out the pain on your own, eh? Wimp. You were doing so well too. Bill will be so disappointed. After all he did for you, you treat him this way-_

In response, he downs two pills and goes after the next bag. The pain rips into him again, although without as much zeal as before; it knows when it's been beat.

He is particular where he leaves his bounty, opening the now empty knife drawer and setting two of the smaller items inside. Nodding, he scopes the rest of the kitchen, sets one of the lovelies in the center of the butcher block, and heads off to...

...the bedroom (leaves two on his pillow, like hotel room mints), bathroom (sets one on top of the pile of _Mad_ magazines and six month old medical journals). For giggles (yes, those delicious champagne bubbles of mirth are swimming up from the depths, leaving despair to languish on its own for awhile), he forms an arrow on the living room hardwood with what is left. The arrow indicates a sign taped to the lower shelf of the bookcase: one word, printed in red marker on a sheet of white printer paper.

His heart pounds steady and strong, blood thrums in his ears as he takes one last tour of the scene. Yes. He is ready.

_No. You're not._

Somehow the small suitcase is already in his hand. He moves to the bedroom, filling the case with a collection of underwear, socks, t-shirts, a second pair of jeans. In his jacket are his wallet, credit cards, about a thousand in cash.

Time is moving, flowing, pulling him along with it. The phone is in his hand, the Sunshine Cab Company is talking at him on the other end. He recites his address to the woman as the red light on the message machine winks at him (_I know something you don't know...)._

Now the tide pulls him to the door, allowing him one more fleeting look at what he has left behind before wrenching him out into the night...

...before the door shuts completely, before the pleading ring of the phone almost draws him back.

Almost.


	16. Clues

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and (hopefully) enjoying.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve **and **Betz88** for all their encouragement and suggestions.

**-16-**

"Clues"

Imagine a ball.

Perfectly round, its glow is inordinately bright. Like a klieg light or...full moon it effortlessly pushes back the dark-

-spinning, bobbling, then bounding like Tigger through the void before cracking open and rolling flat. Its images spring to life, one by one, in 3-D grandeur, reminding her of Marie's favorite pop-up story books.

This particular tale concerns a sleepy little town, eerie in its cold simplicity. She moves through its barren streets slowly, cautiously but with a powerful sense of wonder. Everything is white: storefronts, houses, even the grass between the sidewalk cracks is the color of milk, the sparkle-white of new fallen snow. But this is no snowy day in Mayberry. She hears no jingle of sleigh bells or the high, sweet tones of carolers. Her heels _scritch_ and scrape against the warm cement. The air is balmy, as pleasant as a Sunday in May.

There are no shadows.

_Something wicked this way comes..._

In the distance. Is that a rumble of...thunder? Hooves? No, it couldn't be a return visit from Lancelot's steed. She senses that chapter is long gone. This is new. Different. A crowd is on the way. The streets hold their breath in anticipation, then stretch open wide as welcoming arms as...

...she leans against a pure white fence to bear witness as...

...over the rise a multitude of faithful makes its appearance. Its devotion has a scent: cloying, funereal. The air is filled with it, with them. These faithful buzz around her like red robed insects, causing her to slap a hand over her nose and mouth and weave through their flowing, growing number. Gentle yet firm hands stroke her hair, her shoulders as she ducks and wheels around and around again, searching, seeking, sending a silent plea for an escape path. And through it all, she hears their song of devotion: a calming, tuneful thing that almost has her joining in despite her burgeoning distress.

Panic fails in its quest to pull her in, since it is inevitable she will find a way out. She is here for a reason, she thinks, a small sense of calm returning. Pushing through the last of the crooning, swaying mass, she hurries into the first yard she sees. Before her, a two story house stands quiet, white and somber. By the porch is a white lawn jockey and an Irish Setter, seemingly frozen in mid-bark. She ruffles the stiff white fur, then settles onto the porch swing, rocking to the rhythm of the devoted's song. Her mouth moves with the words as if she has known them forever.

The group has organized itself, holding hands to form a wide circle in the road. The singing becomes a drone that buzzes in the warm air. It is a sleepy sound, which along with the rhythm of the swing lulls her.

Suddenly she is wrenched from her reverie. Her head jerks up as the air resounds with a hearty _huzzah_ from the crowd.

What is going on?

She cranes her neck to get a better look over the rise as the latecomers take up the song. On their shoulders is a cage constructed of bamboo, a cage that might be used as temporary incarceration for an animal from the wild. But their captive is not an orangutan or bear cub or rabbit, but a man. His back is hunched, legs are twisted and bent. He is much too tall for his confines, in too much pain to be standing during what is surely a rocky ride. But she senses he doesn't have a choice. With two hands he clasps the bars, stares out at the scene with helpless resignation.

_Lancelot._

She gasps, falling back into her seat, causing the swing to squeal its complaint. Her mouth is agape as her fingers lightly touch her cheek. Again she is powerless to help. Her knight in the suit jacket is in trouble once more.

"New day, same shit, Allison." Dead Kid is seated next to her now (or has he been there all along?). He quirks a grin and leans forward, his head cocked her way as he clasps his hands between the folds of his hospital gown. The pallor of his skin causes him to nearly blend in with his surroundings: the porch, the grass, the brilliance of the sky. She needs to squint to see him.

Lancelot manages to rattle the cage bars as he is led away. It sounds like the rasp of old bones clickity-clacking together: a skeleton tippity-tapping in time with the music. The sound echoes in the warm air as the song fades, as Dead Kid's gaze bores into hers.

"Time's a wastin', lady," he croons and snaps a finger, shattering the dream into a million porcelain shards.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sleep evades him like House on the Repsol, roaring past obstacles, swerving around corners. Each time he thinks he's caught it, it barrels three miles ahead, leaving him in the dust.

Finally he gives up, opens his eyes. Earlier he tried watching a movie he thought looked interesting enough to Tivo. It held his interest for about fifteen minutes before putting him to sleep. He awoke with a jolt just as it was ending. Figuring he was tired enough to turn in, he clicked off the TV with the remote and lay staring at the ceiling, suddenly wide awake. The vision of House roaring off that afternoon played in his head, over and over in glorious black and white like an old time clip from the Movietone News.

The air conditioner's hum has been his constant companion, the soundtrack to his quest for sleep. Now it's more of an intrusion, a depressing drone.

He turns on his side and reaches to switch on the lamp that is bolted to the nightstand. While he's at it, he throws the phone a slit-eyed glare. No sense missing an opportunity for some sort of small retaliation...

..._what the hell for?_

For the worry, for his own private ring of hell he's been touring since House roared off on the Repsol this afternoon. How many times had he called House's damn cell, the apartment phone? House's voice mail must be overflowing by now.

He checks his watch, then double checks it with the digital clock by the phone. It is early, not yet eleven. The therapy session should have ended hours ago. Wilson figures he could take a ride to Baker Street, drop by with a few beers, maybe some Shrimp Lo Mein. Just a little surprise visit. Casual, unexpected. House would like that.

_Right. He'll slam the door in your face._

Well, now. If the brew and food don't work their magic to convince, a reinforcement might. House is generally an immovable force. But two against one might just persuade him to bend a bit or at least lend Wilson and his conspirator half an ear.

_I don't want to talk to you..._

"I know, I know," he breathes as he punches the buttons on the phone.

It is picked up on the third ring. "H'lo...?"

"I'm sorry, were you asleep?"

"Not quite." She pauses. "James?"

"Yeah." He could almost see her rub the bridge of her nose with two fingers, push that dark shock of hair from her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

He sighs, raises himself up so his back is level with the headboard. "I'm worried about him."

"We're all worried about him."

"He won't answer his phone." Wilson fingers the edge of his comforter. "I was thinking of taking a ride over there."

"Why? So he can slam the door in your face?"

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking-"

"You keep enabling," she says, enunciating the last word like she is sounding it out for a child.

Wilson furrows his brow. He knows Cuddy thinks she is helping the situation by staying away, by pretending House's distressing behavior will disappear on its own. Chances of that happening are less than promising.

"I'm going," he tells her, then adds, "should I pick you up?"

Silence. He pictures her dropping the phone on the sofa and turning in, leaving him to deal with the long night and Greg House on his own.

"No," she says, finally.

"Fine." He is already off the bed, making his way to the dresser to pick out a clean shirt. He will forget the food and the brew. Too late for that anyway. "I'll see you Monday."

"James...," Cuddy's voice sounds distant, weak, like she is speaking from the deck of a fog enshrouded ship.

"What?" His response is clipped, terse; he has lost patience with her Tough Love mentality. If someone needs help, they need help. No games, no trials. He pulls a green sport shirt from the drawer and prepares to say goodnight and hit the road.

But her sudden tremulous sigh holds him in place. After a moment she finds her voice again. "I'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

_A mantra to go with the rhythm of the wheels. Must find a mantra for the rhythm of the wheels._

He shivers, feels the steady, smooth vibration of wheel against track and tries not to think about this terrible thing he's doing...

_Focus. Look inside yourself, where no one else can go. Can you find the light off in the distance? Concentrate._

_Breathe._

_I'm sorry, I was wrong I'm sorry, I was wrong... _

Congrats are in order. He has found his mantra. _I'm sorry, I was-_

_This is a bad idea_.

"Sure as hell is", he thinks, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking up and back with the rhythm of the train.

_Bill doesn't know. But Bill should know what you're doing, where you're going._

_Wilson doesn't know either._

_Black shards of plastic on the kitchen floor_, _black shards of plastic on the kitchen fl-_

His gaze floats over the seats toward the front of the car.

_Woah, why you wanna looky over thar? You're forging headlong into dangerous territory, pardner_.

Yeah, maybe so. He stops, breathes deep and focuses on the hands trembling in his lap. "Thataway" is a bad place, but it is seductive, calling to him, pulling at him like some nubile nymphette.

The bad place is...at the end of the aisle...where the door is: that door leading to the next car. Yes, "Thataway" is enticing but it makes his skin crawl too, like a monster or some other despicable creature is waiting behind it, bent on destroying him.

He rubs his face, ducks his head lower now because Fear has joined the party. It greets him with a hard right to the jaw, then clutches his throat, causing his teeth to meet with a solid _click_; his breath escapes him in short, strained bursts. What is so frightening, what has him so terrified? He can't think, can't reason...whenever he tries he rebounds off an ol' brick wall and starts all over again.

_Take a walk over there. Touch it. It's just a door: metal, plexiglass, black rubber around the window frames. Go ahead. You know you want to. Maybe Bill-_

"No!" he yells. The sound of his declaration is louder than the _clickety-clack _of the wheels. And damn if he hasn't just become the star of the show. Heads turn. Someone sniggers. Way at the other end of the car, a bearded dude with a baseball cap pulled low pumps a fist in the air and shouts, "Yyyyes!"

House sinks lower into his seat and for the first time looks out the window. His lips quiver as his eyes widen. What he sees causes the knot in his stomach to loosen, his shoulders to relax. It's the moon! The moon is watching him, following along just over his shoulder. Pressing his nose to the glass, he lets his mouth go slack. His breath is a fog, a ring around that solid white orb.

_Bill, _he mouths. The sound of the therapist's name warms him even more, slows his heartbeat to a laconic _ba-thump._ Everything will be okay. He knows that now. Bill is watching over him. Nothing bad can happen if Bill is watching him. Nothing bad can happen if he repeats his mantra...

_I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'm sorry, I am_

Cursed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Faulkner places one hand lightly on the steering wheel, with his other he brings the strawberry ice cream to his lips. Gently he swirls his tongue around the creamy point, imagining it to be Dorie Ann's right nipple. He pictures her lying beneath him, her back arched, throwing her head this-a-way and that, as she moans and mews under his adept mouth and hands. It could be. It will be. But not tonight.

Tonight he needs to forgo his lust to finish this, for Johnny, Danielle, for himself. The windows of House's apartment have been dark since he parked across the street a half hour ago. He strolled over earlier, knocking softly on the door, pressing his ear against the rich, dark wood.

Nothing.

For a few long moments, he stood before that door, running his fingers over the brass doorknob, frowning at the peek hole. His thoughts ping-ponged, thwacking each corner of the hallway, as he considered what his next move should be.

Ice cream, he decided. Sweet and smooth, cool and invigorating, it would help him think. Mother always kept a tub of strawberry ice cream in the freezer for when those _stickety wickets _of life caused her boy to become morose and pessimistic.

The ice cream parlor around the corner was open late. It was early summer, after all. School was out. Everyone wants to grab some gusto and extra cash while they can. He paid the lovely sparkle-eyed woman for the cone, sensing how intrigued she was by him. Inside he sighed, satisfied, pressing his lips lightly against the cold, creamy confection. Women sense his power, his sensuality. He has a gift. He is...

...blessed.

Now he waits in his Lexus, certain that Greg will arrive home soon. Greg has a lot of fight in him, but he wouldn't stray. He is simply testing his mettle, seeing how far he can push himself. All of which continues to make him interesting, a challenge but such a frustrating subject, especially when the game is so nearly done. In one recent session, prior to putting Greg under, they discussed free will, Greg revealing it as a major force in his life. Of course the revelation proved to be another nail in the coffin, another jagged piece of Greg's psyche Faulkner slowly chipped away, sending his subject further into the depths. That was easy. This is perplexing.

He taps the steering wheel, watching for the tall man with the ungainly stride to come loping down the sidewalk, cane pushing off the concrete as he moves along. He will glance around furtively, enter what he considers his sanctuary. He will feel safe. As long as the door is locked, no one can hurt him...

...no one but himself.

Faulkner's fingers brush the tip of the jewel encrusted sword, his only passenger on this ride. He smiles slightly, despite the fact that Greg still has not shown...but-

A couple approaches the building, their steps purposeful as shadowy fingers reach to catch them. But they're too quick, too immersed in conversation and reaching their destination to think of dawdling. Faulkner pushes the remainder of his cone into his mouth. It crunches loudly under those well cared for incisors, the sound breaking through the rich, deep silence of the luxury car.

_What have we here?_

He fumbles in his jacket pocket for his opera glasses and hefts them in his palm. He considered leaving them at the office, assuming he wouldn't need them. But it was to his benefit he hadn't played on that assumption.

_You must never assume,_ Mother always said.

Mother was a wise woman.

He draws the glasses to his eyes, squints through them, inviting the couple into his world. Immediately he brightens. The woman he recognizes from the hospital. She is the administrator, Dr. Cuddy, the one who made sure Dr. House took the case of the very frightened, disheveled man with the pain in his chest. His grin widens at the memory of how he sized her up that day.

How intriguing it is that a woman of her stature so blatantly flaunts her desire for sex. She dresses in tight skirts, accentuating her long-legs, squeezes herself into low cut blouses, highlighting her spectacular breasts. She is the most desirable of women, flouncing around like some high-priced call girl, while commanding respect and admiration of an entire hospital staff.

She must be extraordinary in bed.

_Eat you up and spit you out._

Her companion is a pretty boy, with dark flashing eyes, high cheekbones, a slim yet solid build. He seems so anxious, so filled with apprehension. His distress is more than evident in his body language: the slouched shoulders, the way he chews his lower lip. His eyes travel the scene in wary discomfort, as if at any moment the building might collapse on top of him in a heap of brick and glass. He doesn't seem to know where to put his hands. They clasp together as if a prayer is in the offing, then abruptly part, one traveling to the back of his neck, while the other dips into his jacket pocket.

And then Faulkner knows. This is Wilson, he of the silver pen, former best pal of Greg House.

_My, my, my..._

Doctor Cuddy and Ex-Friend Wilson head into the building. In a moment, the first floor apartment's lights flick on. The scene is set. Faulkner's binoculars are small but powerful enough to close in on that nervous tic lifting the corner of Dr. Cuddy's beautiful upper lip. Mother used these glasses at the Met to bring the great stars of opera into her world. Faulkner is certain she would not have minded him using them for this unusual, yet equally grand purpose.

He waits for the payoff, slowly running his tongue over his lips, savoring the sweet lingering taste of strawberry.

_Mmmm, what have we here?_

A look of astonishment crosses Dr. Cuddy's face. For a moment she is a horror stricken siren from a 40's B-grade movie, her scarlet lips a perfect 'o', her blue eyes as round as saucers. Faulkner finds her so lovely, he almost forgets to wonder what her shocked expression might mean. Now Wilson's mouth falls open too. Something out of Faulkner's field of vision is causing them great concern.

Faulkner is concerned too, mites of worry nibble at his innards. But he is a patient man. If Greg's friends have discovered a clue as to the good doctor's whereabouts, Faulkner will soon know it too.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What the hell does it mean?"

Wilson folds his arms and stands in the center of the living room, while Cuddy drifts into the kitchen, her heels clacking against hardwood like time ticking down. She is hunting for another puzzle piece, the one that will open the door to the _Great A-ha, _that last little _something_ that will tell them all they need to know.

"He shattered his cell phone," she calls. "There are pieces of it all over the floor. Probably threw it at the stove to stop the ringing."

Wilson raises his head. "I don't want to talk to you," he mutters to himself.

"All the knives are gone," she continues. "But he left more of these in their place." She reappears, wielding a paperback book in each hand.

"Let me guess," Wilson says. "_As I Lay Dying?"_

"No."

"_Light In August_?"

"No!" She drops the books on the sofa next to the others. "Does it matter which? There are five or ten of each title, anyway."

"No, I guess not." He sighs, eyeing the collection of novels set in a neat row along the length of the sofa. "Obviously it's not the titles but the author that's the clue."

"Yes," Cuddy says, flopping onto the sofa, causing the books to collapse around her.

"William Faulkner." Wilson's thoughts flutter this way and that, like sparrows searching for a safe place to roost. "What does it mean?" Is there a parallel between House's life and novelist Faulkner's, some common thread that will provide the key to where House might have gone?

"This is my fault." Cuddy shakes her head, pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Gurand told me this would happen when I sent House home."

"What did he say?" Wilson stares at the line of books extending from the middle of the living room floor to the bookcase. The book queue leads to a sign handwritten in bold red marker.

"He said I might have seen the last of him." Cuddy's voice is soft and sad.

"CURSED", the sign growls. "It's not your fault. You did what you thought was best."

"You don't believe that."

She is right. He doesn't. But what good would it do to throw guilt in her face now?

"We should leave these books here. If the police have to be called...they'll probably want to see..." His voice trails off as his eyes travel along the complete works of William Faulkner. He clutches a paperback copy of _As I Lay Dying _to his chest. This one he will keep.

They sift through the wastebasket finding nothing but junk mail and a wrapper from a cherry Tootsie Pop. Then it's on to the PC, where they pore over some cryptically named files: "Beans McFadden", "Poor Mimosa", "Ivory Cage", which prove to be nothing more than receptacles for porn downloads. House's email is of no help either: three announcements for online poker tourneys and a few recent thank you's from grateful patients is all they find. Under less trying circumstances, Wilson might have answered these heartfelt notes of appreciation himself. God knows, House never would, not even on his best days...

"I don't know what else to do." Weariness assaults him like a squadron of Marines. He rubs his eyes and surrenders, too embattled to fight back.

"If I know House, he's probably at a bar somewhere, tilting a few. Maybe he found a woman to spend the night with." Cuddy closes down the PC, slings her purse over her shoulder, then gives Wilson a look that says she doesn't believe a word of what just came out of her mouth.

"More likely he's face down in a ditch somewhere in a Vicodin stupor" Wilson pushes out of the computer chair and heads to the door. "Let's go. If he comes back and sees us here, he'll be impossible to deal with for the next week."

"You're such an optimist."

He offers her a thin smile as he places a hand on the doorknob. "I try."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lights in the apartment flick off one at a time. First the bedroom, then the living room. The couple is somber and silent as they exit the building, a signal for the weight in Faulkner's chest to drop to his stomach. There is no good news here. No revelations.

Wilson rubs his chin with one hand as he falls into step beside Cuddy. Narrowing his eyes, Faulkner leans closer to the window. What's that in Wilson's hand? He swings it carelessly at his side, occasionally tapping it against his thigh. Faulkner grips the opera glasses, presses them to his eyes. He twists its tiny center knob and focuses in on...the book. It is a paperback...can't quite see the title but the author's name sparkles in emerald green:

_William Faulkner_

The strawberry aftertaste lays sour on the back of his tongue.

_Okay, alright. _

Looks like Greg has gone and left some clues. Sneaky devil, full of fight. _Free will._ Faulkner wonders exactly how he did it, where he placed his cryptic little hints. It must have caused him some anguish. The guilt that is packed so tightly inside his psyche would have ganged up on him en masse during his sneaky little escapade. The thought makes Faulkner relax...a little.

With trembling fingers, he turns the ignition key and forces himself to think. A plan is formulating, rising from embers of an endeavor gone awry. Must not panic. Turn it around.

The Lexus travels at a moderate speed down the road, past the couple, who are now strapping themselves into a silver Volvo.

_No panic_, he thinks as he sails through a red light.

Turn it around.


	17. In Another Land

**A/N: **Thanks for sticking with the story. We have now reached a new plateau in the tale, which means Chapter 17 marks the beginning of **Part Two**. As always, glad to have you aboard. Please sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride.

**Disclaimer: ** House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88 **for their help and encouragement,and to Wikipedia for the William Faulkner facts.

**-17-**

"In Another Land"

_Oh, yeah. The night time is the right time._

Neon lights surround him, tossing a hundred million flashy blinkywinks his way,

So _how d'ya like my town, baby? _

then pummeling him from every direction: greens, reds, silver and gold. _Pow! Bam! Boff! _Neon is a chameleon, changing, shifting, morphing into: arrows, letters, stars, squares and circles, tumbling and twirling, doffing an electric green hat in the window of Charley's Pub, touting a spectacular SUPER sale at Sammy's Electronics. A veritable rainbow illuminates his walk up 34th Street. The colors make him feel better, less afraid. He wishes he could pocket their essence, mix it up in a vial with his pills.

_Now you're going all sweetness and light. Such a goddamn sensitive soul you are. Feelin' good? It'll wear off, just like that Vicodin high you have going on. _

But the joyous brilliance of neon can't compare with the incandescent orb in the sky. It drifts along with him, watching, always watching, just over his left shoulder.

_Remember this, Master Chief, one thing that never goes away is the curse. It's yours for life, boyeee._

A concert, indoor soccer game, or the Turkish Diving Championships (who knows?) must have just let out from Madison Square Garden (or 'The Garden', as all the cool kids call it), judging by the sea of people pouring from the building onto the streets. The crowd envelopes him, welcomes him into their fold, like he is a member of their esteemed club.

_And if they knew the truth, they'd kick your cursed butt from here to the moon..._

But they don't know. Here he is anonymous, a floating, nameless creature wielding a suitcase and a cane.

The air is filled with their stench: a combo of beer, cigarettes, hot dogs, perfume, colognes, a hint of halitosis, a tinge of body odor meshing with the all pervasive scents of car exhaust and roasted chestnuts. Every once in a while a disgustingly sweet smell of sickness breaks through, evidence of someone's dormant disease that if left unchecked, will probably kill them. If his head didn't feel like it was about to float off into the ozone, he might be able to track down the sickly culprit. But right now, he doesn't really care. He is floating on Vicodin, the lights, the sounds, some kind of cha-cha rhythm drifting like a cloud over everything.

_You caved. Took a few pills, didn't you? Didn't think to do your relaxation exercise..._

"Fuck that," he blurts out. A guy wearing a wife beater and a Panama hat snickers. House snickers back. They are passing ships, compadres on this slow walk to hell. Might as well have company while he burns.

He walks on, not looking at street signs, glad to be alone, an unshaven, unsmiling entity passing through. He can go anywhere, do anything as long as that man in the moon is guarding him from above.

The crowd has thinned. The sidewalk stretches out ahead of him like a soft grey blanket. He is tiring; his steps grow less purposeful. Occasionally he staggers against a post, snorts out a disgusted laugh and moves on. The night air grows chilly, causing the skin on the back of his neck to prickle. He needs to stop but he can't. Not yet.

Time is like a hermit in the hills wielding a shotgun full of buckshot. House figures if stays still long enough it'll bring him down. So he keeps going until the ache in his thigh waves a white flag. Luck peeks from behind its curtain to grant him a minor reprieve. Here are the steps of...the New York Public Library. _Ta-daaa! _He sets his suitcase on the ground and with great reverence, bows low to the few denizens of the night dotting the wide ascending steps. They are featureless, genderless, as indistinct as a jury of phantoms, waiting to hear the evidence so they can put the guilty party _doowwwn._

"Hot shit." He giggles, and after a couple of false starts manages to seat himself on one of the lower stairs.

The building is mammoth; its three imposing archways stare down at him, silvery white under the stars, like some alien monument. If it was open he would go inside, look around, sink into one of those cushy leather chairs, maybe close his eyes for a bit. Just a little while, until his leg stopped hurting and he was able to get his bearings...

_Picture that light in the distance...focus...focus..._

His gaze travels toward the moon. It gives him a reassuring wink. Bill is here; Bill is watching.

_No pain._

His head bobs once, twice; his chin brushes against his chest. The breeze riffles his hair.

_Bill..._

A smile touches his lips as he falls asleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Again, sleep evades him.

_'William Faulkner (author). Born: September 25, 1897-Died: July 6, 1962.'_

The trip to House's apartment left Wilson drain, despondent, confused...

_'Nobel Prize winning novelist and poet.'_

and wide awake. He returned to his room with hopes that sleep was just dancing out of reach, that if he sprawled out on the bed, sleep would cozy up beside him and take him away.

Wrong-o.

_'Widely touted as one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century.'_

His imagination continued to regale him with images of House in a Vicodin stupor, face down in a ditch on some deserted highway, or House in an alley, beaten and robbed, his cane taken from him, his leg badly mangled. It didn't matter that House seemed to have made the choice to take flight. Somehow it still wasn't his call. Wilson is certain he would much rather be home. It's just that something or someone wields power over him, a power House can't seem to shake. This sudden flight is desperation talking, a last ditch effort to escape, to hang on to his free will.

House has always been about free will.

_'Relatively unknown before receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1949.'_

House left his Repsol and Corvette behind, which didn't surprise Wilson at all. If one didn't want to be found, one takes care not to leave a trail of any kind. The vehicles sit patiently parked in their usual spots on the street, their motors cold but not dead.

Not dead.

Add to that the cryptic clues left to flummox whomever might be interested in House's well being and you had a puzzle to rival Rubik's Cube.

_'Was known for his experimental style with meticulous attention to diction and cadence.'_

Again, Wilson is seated at the complimentary computer terminal in the Marriott's lobby. When he arrived, a corpulent man wearing an open neck shirt and a gold cross around his thick neck was perusing a Lindsay Lohan fansite. It took a twenty dollar bill to convince him he needed to find other less prurient interests.

Marcel, the night clerk, smiled knowingly at the exchange. Marcel is brawny, mustachioed, and keeps a bottle of brandy behind his desk. Over the course of his shift, he takes little sips, now and then offering a paper cupful of the stuff to Wilson. Wilson gratefully accepts. Anything to promote some rest, anything to push the thoughts of gloom and doom from his mind.

_Famous works include: 'The Sound and the Fury', 'Light In August', 'The Reivers', 'As I Lay Dying''_

Wilson fingers the corner of the unread paperback he filched from House's apartment.

There are a wealth of internet sites devoted to the life and works of William Faulkner, and Wilson thinks he has perused them all. His head throbs. He feels he could teach a course; by now he is certain he knows every pertinent fact about the writer. And he couldn't care less. There are no parallels here (except that Faulkner was as much a stickler for detail as House is), nothing solid to tie him in to House in any way.

Wilson yawns, bleary eyed; that last cupful of bourbon seems to have hit the spot. Sleep is here, wrapping cool arms around his neck, cooing in his ear like an impatient wife, waiting to get her man in the sack.

He promises himself one last stop on the search engine page before turning in. The black letters dance across the screen like a chorus line, causing Wilson to shake his head and snuffle out a laugh, scrolling down, down, down. He leans closer to squint at the screen. Resting an elbow on the desk, he tilts the side of his face against his palm. He blinks, once, twice, unsure if he's processing the information correctly. The words are there, all in one place, the link is to a different sort of article than the ones he has been reading: "Behavior Modification", "Dr. William Faulkner", "Journal of Psychiatric Research", "Dr. William Faulkner".

Something chilly and slick swirls around his gut as he warily moves the cursor over the link. He is hesitant to put pressure on that right mouse key, afraid of where that link might lead him. One more shot of liquid courage boosts him over the edge.

He has landed on a site devoted to the top one hundred medical professionals in the state of New Jersey over the past ten years. There is a section devoted to one Dr. William Saroyan Faulkner, a retired therapist, who devoted most of his esteemed career to the study of behavioral brain science and pain management.

An icy forefinger travels from the top of Wilson's spine to the base of his skull. He shudders at the chills riding down his back. A hard copy of this find is in order. He will pay Cuddy a visit in the morning. Together they can read through the doctor's credentials and history, and decide where to go from there.

The click and whir of the printer causes Marcel to raise his head from his newspaper. "It's usually a quarter a page, Doc."

"Yeah, I know," Wilson says, digging into his trouser pocket, finding a dime, a quarter, a nickel."

"But for my drinkin' buddy," he winks, "it's on the house."

Wilson removes the pages from the tray, waves two fingers in farewell and thanks. Marcel smiles wanly, looking somewhat disappointed at the loss of his "drinkin' buddy". Weaving toward the elevators, Wilson vows this is the last time he will swig bourbon in the Marriott lobby at 1:33 in the morning. From now on, he needs to keep his wits about him.

_Something wicked this way comes..._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His dream is filled with flowers and death. They envelope him as he walks that last mile: a slow, weary path through silent halls of a funeral parlor.

_Ssssh...don't make a sound..._

The walls, the floors, nearly everything is white. His pants are white too, a marked contrast to his red shirt. He moves along,

_...don't stop...don't stop...don't..._

his feet barely touching the snowy carpet. In the main room, he is struck by the openness, the emptiness, the cloying scent of orchids. Those flowers almost completely obscure the casket in the center of this otherwise barren room. The petals are way far gone, curled inward, shriveled, browning with decay. The stench of putridity and decomposition is stifling. His throat constricts. His breathing is labored, shallow. In time, the walls of his esophagus will meet and he will suffocate. But for now...

...his fingers can't help closing around the rotting petals, although he senses (somehow) this is not a good idea. They fight against his grip, moving and slithering against his palm. He opens his hand, watches them flutter and float, soft pink shells turning black in the close, silent air. One tickles his lips as if searching for access. He welcomes it. Pulling it in with his waiting tongue, he lets it slip down his throat like a much anticipated pill, feeling it roll and swim inside his blood, becoming part of him.

_Muy malo, señor._

To commune with this strangeness is possibly the worst thing he can do.

And of course he is right. Because...

...he is in the coffin now, the mass of orchids burying him deep, stifling his cries, hampering his frantic efforts to escape. From somewhere... far away but closing in fast, a song begins. It is low...it soothes him. He stops moving...

_Breathe..._

...and listens. The song is tuneful, its melody carefully constructed to become intrinsically twisted in his psyche, convincing him that, yeah, maybe all is right with the world. An odd thought for one who has been buried alive under dead flowers and impenetrable wood. The lyrics are unintelligible, yet his lips move with them, like he has known the song forever.

The dark the cold, the stench of decay and his own fear work quickly to overwhelm him.

_Too late, Master Chief._

He feels his vitals shutting down, one by one until the heart muscle gives up. Like an old sponge it shrivels and withers and dies.

_Bye, bye._

He kind of wishes he could see daylight again.

_C'est la vie..._

But the song...the song stays on his lips. Even in death.

"Easy now."

He blinks and raises his head. Something flows down his cheek, trickling into his stubble to land on his lower lip. Salty. Tears. His cheeks are damp, a light breeze causes the moisture to cool his feverish skin.

_This is wrong._

He hitches in a breath and gazes skyward as the dream gradually eases its hold on him. The moon is only half visible, obscured by braids of black clouds.

A bad sign.

"Are you okay?"

The question isn't difficult. People have asked him this before. But he can't seem to articulate a coherent response. He glances at the moon again as if hoping for the answer. What should he say? He doesn't know how he is. Without Bill he's not really sure of anything.

"It's nice," the voice continues. "The moon. Round and full of light. You sure don't need streetlights when nature comes round to lend a hand."

_I don't want to talk to you._

Well, this time he's not so sure about that. Maybe he would like to talk to someone. Maybe this person can tell him if he's alright. He begins to turn, suddenly curious. She is seated one step above him. He opens his mouth and almost blurts out the question. But the moon takes this moment to peer out from behind the clouds, to give him a brilliant smile. His mouth drops open as his head falls back, as his eyes go wide. He needs to take it all in. If he stares hard enough, maybe he will get his answer.

"My name's Lois," the woman says.

House runs his tongue along his lower lip and narrows his eyes at the only bit of Bill he has left. But something tugs at his consciousness; a familiar smell jars him, wrenching him back "You...stink like a funeral parlor," he croaks, realizing with a jolt the woman smells like his dream.

"Oooh, now that's not nice, child." Her chuckle is gruff but benevolently tolerant, the sort a mom might toss to her mischievous son. "What do they call you?"

He takes a chance, turning his gaze from the moon to her. After giving her a terse once over, he declares, "You're a witch."

"I told you my name, child." She tilts her head and purses her lips. "What's yours?"

After a moment of a further scrutiny, he tells her.

She does look like one of those New Age spirit gurus, clad in a red tunic with some strange design in the center, phosphorescent white slacks and sienna colored sandals. Moonshine shadows are tucked between the folds under her eyes, the deep crevices around her smile, the loose skin under her chin. Her hair is a mass of steel wool curls, forming a stiff grey frame around her weathered face.

"You need one of those hats with the point at the top." House spits out a laugh. "Give you a black cat and a broom and you'll be good to go."

She _would_ look natural standing behind a black cauldron, stirring up some noxious brew. House could picture her adding an eye of newt here, a frog's leg there to conjure up a white magic soufflé.

"Well, now, that's quite a sense of humor you have, Greg. But I can see from your aura that you're a sad old soul." Her hands trace the air around his head, his shoulders, his jacket sleeves. "Your spirit has been claimed by dirty colors.."

He snorts and attempts to offer the moon a conspiratorial look, but the clouds have formed a posse to keep Bill well hid this time. The barest sliver of white shines through, causing House to shudder. He suddenly feels as hollow as an empty glass.

"You are the embodiment of sorrow."

Reluctantly, he turns to face her again.

"I can tell you have turned your back on spirituality." Her dark eyes shimmer and twinkle with...expectation? Religious fervor?

He scoffs but doesn't look away.

"You are surrounded by dirty colors: shades of browns and grays, sulfur and white. A horrible mix. Your soul is troubled, at times pushing you to the depths of despair: you are unsettled, distracted, you find relief in artificial stimulation. There is a lack of harmony here. Yet-"

Her knowing smirk is contagious and he can't help return it.

"There is a strong suggestion of orange, a clean color, which is a sign of power, a sign of someone with unique abilities...and-" Her head tilts to the right as her eyes widen in incredulity. "Green. You possess great powers of healing," Clasping her hands together, she breathes, "but you are in great conflict with all the positive forces in your life."

"Well...I'm cursed," he says matter-of-factly. _That_ is the answer. He gives an emphatic shake of his head. The clouds clear; the moon is out of the woods. It nods in agreement. House feels better now.

"Cursed?" She purses her lips again and _tut, tuts_ to herself. Hefting her shoulder bag a little higher, she eases herself down a step to sit next to him. "You mind?"

"You smell like dead flowers," he tells her. "Orchids."

"I'm sorry." Her lips part to form an apologetic grin. Her teeth are yellow, except for the left canine, which is a mottled gray-black nub. "My children like flowers."

House says nothing, just stares straight ahead and struggles to keep his thoughts cohesive. Witchy Woman's rant about auras and spirituality confounded him. But deep down the idea of New Age hoodoo intrigues him.

Maybe now he would be better off not talking to her. There are too many ideas buzzing around his head, and every time he makes a mental grab at one, they all skitter away, like marbles on ice.

_Thanks for playing. Try again_.

Okay. A hotel. A shower. Sleep. He needs to find a diner and sit down for a proper meal: burger...a shake...fries...soup...pie. Yes, he ate dinner hours ago and is not supposed to eat another full meal today. But he is hungry.

_You're not supposed to eat another meal_.

Hungry. Bill? _Bill? _House's eyes keep drifting toward the moon and, _damn,_ the witchy woman is asking him something else now, interrupting his flow.

"--you're cursed?"

"Yes, I am."

"And what makes you think so?"

"Think of us when you hurt," he recites. "When the pain is so bad you wish death would just...take you." He pauses and cocks one eye skyward. "I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart."

"Someone told you this?"

"Yes."

"And you actually believe it?"

"No reason I shouldn't."

"You possess great fortitude, extraordinary mental acuity. But you need to learn how bring your soul out of the darkness and learn the proper ways of channeling your powers-"

"Bill knows I'm cursed." he tells her decisively. That should be the end of it. But of course it's not.

"You poor thing." She _tut tuts_ again and shakes her head. "Where are you from?"

"Jersey," he tells her, wondering about the slight southern lilt in her tone. Witchy's no native New Yorker either.

"Are you here on a getaway?" she asks pleasantly, indicating his suitcase with a tilt of her chin.

"Getaway," he mumbles, studying her for a few long moments. The lines between her eyes deepen, accentuating her look of care and concern.

I have to go," he says.

"I'll just bet you're hungry."

His stomach gurgles in agreement, while the swish of traffic sings in his ears. His gaze moves from one end of the block to the other. "I need a diner. Do you know where there's a diner?"

"There are lots of coffee shops around." Lois grins, hitching a little closer to him. "But wouldn't you rather have a home cooked meal?"

"I eat special food." He looks around again. There, way at the end of the block, his old pal neon blinks and beckons in magenta splendor, spelling out the words 'LOREENA'S CAFE'.

"Gotta go." He grabs his cane and begins the process of getting to his feet.

"Stay for a minute." Lois rests a steady hand on his forearm, causing him to postpone the tête-à-tête with the mobility beastie and remain seated. "Let me at least give you a little something to warm you on your journey." Raising one brow, she reaches in her bag and retrieves a small steel thermos. "When my children are hungry I make chicken soup for them. They sit by the fire, sip it from their cups. So lovely, so warm. We talk. Sometimes I will read them a story."

_Children? _He pictures a gaggle of forty year olds, settled on pillows, clad in jammies, sipping soup and staring goggle eyed as Witchy-Poo reads to them from some Harry Potter tome.

"Interesting," he thinks. Her smile is so full of love, he no longer notices her bad teeth; And that stench of decay? Just a dream...

_Try hard enough and you can convince yourself of anything._

He sets his cane across his lap and holds out one hand to accept her offering. The stainless steel warms his palm, his stomach groans louder as the good steamy scent of chicken broth greets his nostrils.

_Chicken soup is okay. It's part of the meal. But there are no noodles. Is that bad? Will that make a difference? We-ell, just this once it might be okay. You, sure? Yeah, yeah. Just this once..._

The moon smiles its assent as House sips the warmth, taking it in like communion wine.

And of course in a matter of moments, he falls into a lovely stupor. Everything is impossibly far away, like the world has turned to rubber and str-r-etched to its limit. Interesting. Maybe he should continue that mobility tête-à-tête, get to his feet, move away from this woman who is now towering over him. But how can he when his legs have magically, mystically turned to rubber too? Damn, Witchy looks about ten feet tall, her face is way the hell up there, right next to Bill's. How 'bout that? How did that happen? Something in the soup. Damn, skunked again. But it feels good.

_So...high._..

Strong hands reach under his arms to help him to his feet. So many hands, impossibly soft, inordinately careful. Don't wreck the merchandise. This is nice. Red tunics, white trousers. He considers making the effort to move his head and turn his gaze to the moon. But it's like asking him to scoot over to LOREENA's for a bite. No can do, sonny boy. Witchywoman's voice is a warm fuzzy blanket filling the space where his mind used to be. The dirty colors...clean colors. She is giving directions. Something about a car, back seat, careful...careful.

_"Don't hurt him. Stefan will like this one. Don't--"_

His brow is pressed against the cool, tempered glass, his body as limp as an abandoned marionette. He is moving now, watching the blur of neon and cement pass him by as...

...the moon smiles down.

Bill is pleased.


	18. While You Were Out

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone reading.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **To **NaiveEve** and **Betz88** for their help and encouragement.

**Please note! This chapter is rated 'M'.**

**-18-**

"While You Were Out"

At first she doesn't remember where she is. The room is dark, filled with snores, sleepy murmurs and the rustle of linens shifting under the weight of dreams.

But soon enough sleep loosens its hold and those memories come flooding back.

_Hotel...New York...long day yesterday...dragging the kids through the airport...Bridget getting sick in mid flight, throwing up in the plane's cramped, rackety toilet. Poor kid. All the excitement of the trip got to her. That and the dream. The knight made a special guest appearance in Bridget's dream the night before last, taking her for a ride on his steed and allowing her to name it. She dubbed it Trusty, which he thought was lame (his word) and suggested Zanzibar or Thunderstruck. But Bridget stood her ground, which gained her the knight's respect and ownership of the horse... _

"Fallout," Allison assumes. It's that psychic energy topping off and overflowing from Allison's cache. Ariel is usually the one on the receiving end. This time Bridget was the lucky one. Allison dreads the day Marie starts getting into the act.

She flops one arm over Joe's torso and levers herself up slightly to peer over his sleeping form. According to the clock on the nightstand it is only 6:10. Groaning softly, she falls back on her pillow. _Not fair. _Sleep has abandoned her after sticking around for a measly four hours. Not to worry, though. Exhaustion will claim her later, at a most inopportune time, probably dinner.

This current bout of wakefulness is due in part to last night's feature entitled, "The Caged Knight, Part 2". Will that morose fixture of her dreams ever leave her to her business? Why can't he just...get out of her head, at least for the week? The change in scene has her out of sorts, disoriented, unfocused. Sure she would like to help him. But wouldn't a fresh start when she returns home be a better way to go?

She senses Dead Kid tromping through the confines of the room. He is angry, impatient., disappointed with Allison for entertaining such thoughts. Soon enough he will show himself, berate her for what he considers a shirking of her responsibility.

_Why?_

It seems there is no help for the knight, at least none she can offer. But the more she fights the visions, the more persistent they become. What is she supposed to do?

_He's in New York, Mom. We can invite him for lunch..._

Bridget is a fanciful kid with a stellar imagination.

This hotel room is another cause of her sleeplessness. Sensory echoes are strong here. Elements of distress, sadness and resignation drift like specters, like wisps of black gauze, passing through bed frames and headboards, mirrors and walls. A play of shadows. She closes her eyes to concentrate and raises one hand as if to grasp those silken transparencies. She is rewarded with a whiff of Obsession, the sound of a gruff voice instigating an argument, a strangled cry, a smack, and for the finale, a sharp, muttered expletive. Allison rubs her brow, wishing she could shut out the hurt and despondency. This is supposed to be a vacation, a happy, pleasant time. But the bad feelings are every bit as prevalent as the air. They live here. And there is no way to tell them to take a hike.

The mystery has always been how to leave the 'knowing' part of herself behind. _Ah, there's the rub._ Where is the handbook for this 'gift'? Could she please have a manual explaining its wide and varied uses? Oh, and, while she's sending out a requisition, a troubleshooting guide would be helpful too. How much easier the 'knowing' would be if she could use it on demand, take it out when the need arose. She realizes this is a ridiculous notion, like leaving an arm or leg or some vital organ in a carrier bag to use when necessity struck.

But she is tired, a little jet lagged. A cup of coffee will fix her up.

Soon

_Time's a-wastin, Allison._

Guilt pours over her like the green slime from that TV show her kids used to watch. Yes, she's sorry. Her knight is out there somewhere, in more trouble than he bargained for. But she doesn't want to think about it now because, dammit, this is _her_ vacation time. It's Saturday in New York City. There will be sightseeing, restaurants, shopping in FAO Schwartz. This is _family_ time. Tomorrow they will sit in prime orchestra seats for a matinee performance of _Beauty and the Beast._ Ariel's award ceremony is Monday. This is _their_ time. But still...

_You're begging. You're pathetic._

Yes, she feels like she is begging, But there must be some benevolent entity out there, listening...

_You're filled with self pity; you're making everything more difficult than it should be._

...imbued with the power to change everything for the better. For some unknown reason he just refuses to do it.

There is one thing she can try, she decides, and that is to show a modicum of good faith. If you give a little, sometimes you get a whole lot back. At least that's what's she's been telling her kids. So she gives in, opens the gate, allows her waking thoughts to embrace her knight. _Hi there_. She wiggles her fingers on top of the blanket in greeting and is abruptly awarded with...a sneak peek...

_a train...at night...staring at the moon...frightened...unsure...the moon is your friend...best friend..._

Her eyes close. She feels the rumble of the wheels against the tracks

_you ran...you took heed...wise move...but escape has its own set of caveats...taking you from one perilous circumstance...into...more treacherous waters_

She drifts deeper, falling into the dream of the cage again, of her knight rattling the bamboo bars that this time look more like femur bones. She watches helplessly as he struggles, like some animal plucked from the wild to be taken far away, to be put on display. His captors are more than happy with their new acquisition; they cheer and dance in celebration. Red shirts, white pants, brown sandals. Some sort of cult? A religious organization? What kind of group gets their members by force? Patty Hearst floats by, buoyed by leathery black wings and holding a musket. The Symbionese Liberation Army?. But the knight's new pals aren't terrorists. They are folks are on the side of goodness and right. A new world. A New Age.

The revelation has rattled her own cage. She jolts upright and finds herself staring into the eyes of Dead Kid.

"Very good, Allison," he coos, stroking her hair. "Now we're getting somewhere."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy is an early riser. Even on days she can sleep in, she is up with the birds, fussing with the coffee maker, tuning in to world news on CNN. You never know what you might miss by not checking out the news. A whole mess of trouble happens while you sleep. You never know when something might crop up to set your little corner of the globe a-tremblin'.

National news, international news, it's the same as always. War, murder, strikes, litigations, politicians seeking their party's unified thumbs up. Everyone's always out for themselves. But these reports are of marginal interest. She waits to hear something that might hit closer to home.

With a forced air of nonchalance, she sips her brew and flips to New York news: Fox, CBS, NBC, ABC. _Flip, flip, flip, flip. _Her old friend restlessness has set in. She sets down her coffee, tosses the remote on the couch, then strides from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom-

_Where is he? _she thinks, staring at herself in the mirror. She looks frazzled, worn out, and the day hasn't even begun._ The next town, the next state, out of the country? In the shape he was in- _

For one horrible moment, she forgets how to breathe. But as she whips round to escape her own accusatory glower, she remembers, inhaling, exhaling, because she has to; she has no choice. Tramping into the living room, she freezes in front of the TV. It tells her nothing. Blondie reporter with the sculpted brows and collagen lips is in some restaurant kitchen, helping the chef make paellas. Other, more important things are going on and she is making goddamn paellas. Cuddy's hands are balled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. It might feel good to punch the screen, bash a hard right through blondie's perfect smile...

_His car. How could he leave his car and his cycle...just parked on the street like that_?

...which would solve...nothing

James should be calling soon. They still need to come up with a contingency plan, without the dulling influence of booze. Staying clearheaded and calm is a must. This afternoon they're going to have to file a missing person's report. Yesterday, at a few minutes past one, James saw House for the last time, mere moments after Cuddy had sent House away.

_Good move. Excellent work. _How much more damage will she inflict before this is done?

A bored detective, less than thrilled to be on the job this glorious Saturday afternoon, will write up the report, eyeing the clock as he rolls through the routine.

_Gregory House, your head of Diagnostics?_

Yes.

_Last day and time seen? _

Easy one. Blah, blah, blah. Keep going.

_Anyone you know who might have a reason to hurt him, maybe want to get some of their own back? _

_Yeah_, she hears her own tired voice admit. _A half dozen nurses, at least three surgeons, about twenty patients and their relations...where do I begin_?

_Recent photos_?

_None. Wait, yes_.

She recalls _that_ picture-the one taken at the most recent hospital fund raiser. It is tucked inside a folder in the lower left hand drawer of her office desk, where she has been forced to hide it. If House ever found it, he would spirit it off to his office and run it through a shredder. But _that_ photo is too endearing to suffer such a sorry end: House is at the piano, cigar clamped between his teeth, head tilted to one side, eyes exuding a tenderness he so rarely lets show. It's the music. The music does that to him. She has seen it before-in another time, another place.

_He flashes that rare glimmer of smile at the camera... _

She forces herself to squelch it. Just...stop. Leaning against the sofa, she presses a hand against her chest and waits for the ache to pass.

_Never you mind, Lissey. Never mind. The questions will come. Answers will follow. You will get through it with James' s help_.

She decides to go for a run. It will clear her head, give her something productive to do. She will keep her phone with her in case Wilson decides to call.

_House. _She repeats the name over and over, as if it holds magic. Perhaps if she intones it enough times it might scoop him up from wherever he is and transport him back to Princeton, safe and sound. He'd be angry...no, livid at her for nosing into his private time. _Tough, House, tough shit_. She should have said it when he was sitting morose and uncommunicative in his tomb of an office. _Where IS he? _She dons her shorts, sweat socks, Converse sneakers, sports bra, t-shirt.

Why didn't she take him in hand after the knife incident? Why didn't she work with Gurand, allow him to delve deeper into House's problematic psyche when House was under her jurisdiction?

_Why couldn't she have just kept her mouth shut long enough for Gurand to do what he does best?_

It is much too simple to look over your shoulder, find all the answers lying at your feet like detritus by the roadside.

Now House is gone and she doesn't have a clue in hell what to do.

She leans over the kitchen sink now, clasping the steel edge in a white knuckled grip as she closes her eyes. Lisa Cuddy did not become a Dean of Medicine by losing battles with her emotions. She knows how to keep it together. She bases her career around that inner strength. The nausea will pass, despite the sickening twist in her gut, which is like the edge of a knife finding its way home.

_Okay, deep breath_. She smoothes back her hair with the flat of her palms, exhales softly and slowly. Better now. She straightens, sniffs back a few tears and makes tracks for the door.

When she pulls it open she is not entirely surprised to find James standing on her front step, one hand poised to knock.

"You okay?" he asks, lowering his hand slowly. He cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at her like she is a specimen under glass.

Her gaze drops to the legal size envelope under his arm. "Yeah. Dandy. What's that?"

"Hope. An answer. Lollipops, sunshine and roses," he says without a trace of a smile. After pushing the folder into her hands, he brushes past her into the house.

She turns and follows him inside. The run will have to wait.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A suite is the only way to go. Who wants to be cooped up in one room, especially when you're with a woman whose idea of a perfect evening is sex, sex, and more sex? After another hour of this, he will definitely be ready for some solitude.

He needed a diversion after the shock of watching Dr. Wilson leave Greg's apartment carrying a Faulkner novel. Shock has a way of morphing into panic if left unchecked. So he conjured up a calming mantra on the way home, repeated it to himself all the way up the elevator and through his front door. After pouring himself a drink, he tried to relax on the living room sofa. His book of choice was Heller's _Catch-22, _a humorously wicked tome. Instead of taking his mind off his problem, the snide prose made him restless. He tossed the book aside, pushed himself up and began to wander through the sprawling apartment.

He needed physicality. He needed to get laid. Mother thought the term base and inappropriate, so he never used it around her. But it appealed to him. In truth, it made his blood flow a little more quickly, made his heart beat with that much more fervor. Made him feel...alive.

So he took a chance, even though it was much too late, and rang Dorie. Would she like to go to the Sheraton for a nightcap? Of course she agreed. Faulkner knew she had been waiting for this opportunity, knew from that bright lilt in her tone through the earpiece how easy it was going to be to 'get laid'.

Seated at that corner table, separated from her by a flickering tea candle and a bottle of Merlot, he could already tell how the early morning would progress. She was giving him that look as she brushed the toe of her shoe against his calf, as she made her silent but implicit offer. It made him feel that, yeah, he must have landed in right hand of one of the gods. The tides were turning with him. He felt somehow invincible.

Now laughter bubbles up in his throat; he would set it free, except Dorie Ann is already hitching her hips and working her ass to get them both off. He wouldn't want her to think his amusement is directed at her.

She must have been deprived of something essential somewhere along the line to be this...needy, he thinks, rolling his hips against hers, matching her excited, jerky movements for the second time this morning. His hands flow over her apple-hard breasts, causing her to grunt like an animal, her thighs viselike around his ample midsection, pulling him deeper...

Yep. Dorie Ann certainly is a hungry little lady.

Sex helps him think, allows his thoughts to flow like the easy, fluid motion of bodies moving together. The sensations never distract him. If anything they help him hone the plan that is taking shape, growing and blossoming like the orgasm now in the making.

Yes, he realizes it is only a matter of time before Dr. Wilson or the lovely Dr. Cuddy do a Google search and discover the existence of _that_ William Faulkner, the therapist of some renown. Who says their plan isn't already in motion? He needs to prepare, since once they find him, they will attempt to shoot him down with out a salvo of well thought out questions.

But golly, gosh, jiminey, won't they feel foolish with their fighting words and accusatory stares. Because, surprise, surprise! Dr. William Faulkner is going to be extremely cooperative, helping them in any way he can. Doctor-patient confidentially be damned. This is important stuff, absolutely vital to Greg's salvation.

Dorie pulls him in for a kiss, keeping the rhythm of her hips moving ju-ust right. Their tongues meld, mesh, their teeth clicking together hard as the heat rises. He smells her body powder, her sweat. It's good. She rears back and grunts, growls, squeals.

_Damn._

Again he steers his thoughts away from her to focus on the problem at hand. Greg. He wouldn't have gone far. No way would he have boarded a plane. As delicious and tantalizing as escape might have seemed, he would have found it impossible to stray too far. The power of the curse and that roiling mass of intense guilt would allow him to travel no farther than, maybe Atlantic City. Although...New York is a more likely possibility. New York is actually the perfect distance away. The city would provide Greg with just enough change of scene to offer him some stilted sense of freedom. Yet the city is just over the river, a hop, skip and jump back to Best Friend Bill, in case of a meltdown.

Oh, ye-es, at some point there will be a meltdown. The wiring is set, the explosives in place. When it happens...it might just do Greg in.

_Less work for Billy_.

This time he does laugh but quickly disguises it as a cry of pleasure. This seems to please Dorie, causing her to buck and writhe and tighten up even more.

_Wonderful_.

He feels himself losing it, blood pounding in his ears, heart throbbing along with the old in and out. Suddenly he thinks of the lovely Dr. Cuddy, of her 'boom da boom' walk, of her pole dancer's body. His thrusts accelerate.

_Soon...good lord...soon. Ohhh._

No...slow, slow, slow. Not yet.

He forces the image of Dr. Cuddy from his head and eases himself off that cloud. He descends a few feet, slows the pace. Dorie spits out some half articulate expletive, her eyes darkening with disappointment.

"Soon," he whispers, setting his hands beneath her butt; his thrusts are languid, hard and deep.

She gasps, then lets out a long, low hiss, reminding Faulkner of an overheated car radiator. Her appeal is gradually falling by the wayside, which is all Dr. Cuddy's fault.

Yes, Google is a marvelous search engine. Faulkner wonders if of those perceptive doctors have already studied the links, made the connection yet. Even if they have...

He bites his lower lip as the heat intensifies again. Dorie's mouth falls open, her eyes flutter closed, pleasure rolling over her like a wave.

...he will surprise them. He will make the first move.

_Draw first blood..._

It is easy to bend the truth, twist it and mold it like a malleable lump of clay, until it fits perfectly in the palm of your hand. Then it's yours to use as you see fit. Of course this sort of trickery takes a steady touch, a talent for convincing people to believe _your _truths.

Faulkner is an expert at working that sort of magic.

He frowns, then sighs. Dorie is whimpering now, shuddering and moaning like a dog in heat. She is peaking, peaking, rising higher. He decides to end this before boredom strikes and Mr. Johnson calls it a day.

Like an orchestra leader bringing the symphony to its final powerful crescendo, he pushes...pushes...then _thrusts. _Her last few squeals of rapture set him off too and they arrive simultaneously at the desired destination.

_Are we done here? Good._

Without a word, he rolls off her and heads for the shower. She will lie in bed, languish in the afterglow, sleep.

Faulkner decides he is finished with Dorie for awhile. Maybe for good.

He slips off the saturated condom, throws it in the toilet, watching the water swirl it round and around before flushing it away.

He smiles at the clean, pure beauty of it.

And it's into the shower now, head tilted back, arms raised high as the powerful spray pummels him. He loves the heat, the invigorating flow. His laughter echoes off the tiles, and he notes with some surprise that he is hard again. Wonderful. He leans against the wall and strokes himself, savoring the rapture, the slow build, the secret, sinful joy.

As he comes, he breathes a long, breathy _oooooh, _and realizes something he should have known all along.

He really is invincible.


	19. Join the Party

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve** and **Betz88 **for all their help and encouragement.

**-19-**

"Join the Party"

_Brutal cold...midwinter...it's his face that suffers the most. His cheeks sting, raw from the bite of the frigid air. Mom made him wear a sweater under the flak jacket Dad brought him from Burma; his gloves are so thick he probably couldn't manage to craft a proper snowball if he wanted to. But she forgot the scarf. What happened to the scarf?_

_He wants to return to the house, to sit in the warm kitchen, sip chicken soup from his new silver thermos. But it's not time for that now. Besides the house is gone...Mom is gone too... _

_So he waits in this bleakness. Waits and watches. The wind continues to ravage his face as a contingent approaches from the north. To offer them welcome, a garden of orchids breaks through the icy crust of the snow. So many flowers. Too many. Something about their waxy stems and baby-skin petals makes his stomach churn._

_The contingent draws nearer-clad in red tunics, white pants, brown sandals. Those thick leather soles crrr-unch the snow, breaking the perfect white silence. The petals shiver in the frosty air, shriveling and turning black as one, muddying the purity..._

_Then, without warning, without so much as a tingle or twinge, he collapses like an epileptic in the throes of a Grand Mal seizure. Gloved hands scrabble at the hard, snow-packed ground. Control has fled; his attempts to regain it cause him to jerk, twitch and writhe like some hopped up break dancer. _

_(boppin' to that cra-zy rhythm)_

_He has no choice but to give in, ride with it. It's out of his hands but the gang's all here. They gather round him, faceless in the blinding whiteness, showering him with those ruined yet fragrant petals. Paper thin, black as batwings, they flutter over him as he opens his mouth to receive..._

The sound of wrenching, choked sobs brings him back. It takes him a few moments to realize he is the snuffler, the wimp, the candy-ass fool.

_What are you crying about, boy? You're fourteen, almost a man. What are you crying about, boy? You're fourteen, almost a ma-_

His eyes are open now...maybe. He blinks once...twice and decides that, yes, the world has really turned white. But maybe this is not the world, maybe it's the moon, the home of the Man in the Moon. His eyes travel tentatively from left...to right, cautiously, carefully.

_The cursed put a great deal of thought behind everything they do. You watch, you wait, you listen..._

Maybe _he_ is the Man in the Moon now. Bill is probably busy looking for him, so perhaps the job has been passed along to the next likely candidate: Best Friend Greg. Round and round we go. One hand reaches to touch the softness, the cottony covered down enveloping him. It is deep, so impossibly soft as it draws him...

_Breathe_

...further into its smothering embrace. And he is...

... gritting his teeth, kicking and flailing at the bulky comforter, tossing it to the floor, as if the Grand Mal really does have him in its grip.

_Dreams can come true..._

His heart is a hammer, pounding a relentless, brutal tattoo against his ribs. His breath hitches and whistles in his chest as those black spots join the party to swirl and dance against the blank walls. Passing out now would in no way be helpful. So he goes to his special place, where sun gold pyramids cast long shadows over Egyptian sands. There is a train in the distance, its locomotive huffing out white plumes of smoke as it travels further and further on, until it is nothing more than a dot on the horizon.

_That's good...very good..._

After he regains some sense of calm, he leans forward, then throws himself back against the headboard. He grunts out an expletive; his spine aches from the force of the connection. But he is awake now, he thinks...maybe? The world is still white. That hasn't changed. The blanket on the floor billows like a thick sea of clouds, like a goddamn marshmallow sundae. He likes marshmallow sundaes, vanilla ice cream, mounds and mounds of whipped cream, cherry on top. Maybe next time at the diner...

_No. You know that' s not right._

Still...

He grimaces, rolls his shoulders against the waning ache and leans back on his elbows. Cleaning out the muck that coats his grey matter like maple syrup is a process, a true challenge.

_Okay, okay. Let's think, let's do the differential_. Go!

Way on the other side of the room...someone's there. Red tunic, white trousers, toes sticking out of brown leather sandals.

_Last thing you remember? Library steps, woman with the soup, scent of orchids everywhere... the smell is here too, isn't it?_

"You." House squints, blinks, waves a finger. "Hey, you..."

It's a kid, a young kid, twelve...thirteen or so. Dark haired, skinny, he is seated on a stool by the closed door, a key is tied to a lanyard that is looped around his birdlike neck. He chews his lower lip as his eyes go wide. One hand holds a tambourine.

_Can you say Koresh? Can you say Jim Jones? A little tainted Kool-Aid with your lunch?_

A cult is a group of weak minded, brainwashed fools.

_Ohhh, then you're going to feel right at home here._

"Where am I?" Wincing, House massages his temples with two fingers and wonders if this is purgatory. Maybe this is the place where all the cursed folks go.

_Hallelujah!_

The kid lifts the tambourine, his eyes never leaving House. The shiny metal discs shiver and jangle softly against the wood.

"I need my cane."

_Chink-a-chink-a-chink-a-chink..._

"I gotta pee."

The kid makes a small sound: a cross between a whine and a groan. He bangs the tambourine frantically against the palm of his other hand, his face going scarlet as he dissolves into tears.

"What are you crying about?"

_Chinkachinkachinkachinkachink..._

_(You're fourteen, almost a man, almost a man...)_

"You hear me? Can you understand? Habla espanol? Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

The kid responds by offering a couple of silent sobs and a shudder.

"You're a real waste of time."

House's right hand is drawn to his right thigh. A solid ache has settled in there, and no amount of visualizing is going to ease it. Sorry, Bill. Sorry...

_I'msorrysorrysorrysorry_

A shiver rides up his spine as he realizes he is _cold, _clad only in his briefs and t-shirt. Goose pimples graze his arms and his thighs. His blue dress shirt, leather jacket and jeans are probably with his cane and his meds and his sneakers and socks and wallet. Somewhere. He has been violated. Taken. The thought makes his temples pound like the _boom, boom _beat of a Saturday night disco party.

The kid is still staring at him, seeming as much amazed as he is distressed. House wants to gimp over there, take the kid by his chicken neck and throttle him. But anger and fear will only serve to muddy these waters more.

_Easy, slow down. Take a good look around now, a real good look._

Not much to see. There are no windows in this room or cell or...whatever this place is. No phone. Why would there be? And it seems someone rea-ally likes orchids. Three planters are rife with them, hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Over yonder is a closet; a red banner bearing some strange looking design is taped across it. The white carpet is marred by a pale yellow stain shaped like the southern coast of Italy. Someone's got to be pissed about that. Or maybe someone's bladder failed while they were looking for a damn place to pee.

The thought amuses him more than it should. He feels bad about laughing. He shouldn't be laughing. He should be more concerned about the curse that brought him here. How can he make it right? He is still laughing as the images come, assaulting him like salvos from a cannon: his sofa, his TV, his piano, Bill's office, hospital, patients, the recliner, knives, Wilson's pen tumbling down, down, down into the maw of an abyss. His own laughter is part of the assault. It is high pitched, more like a wail than the sound of amusement.

The kid is frozen in place, tambourine poised in mid strike. House's laughter dies away slowly, like a train moving farther and farther off into the distance until it is gone. He pushes himself up and dangles his legs over the side of the bed, the soles of his feet embedding themselves in the comforter's cushy terrain.

"My pills." The words leave his lips hoarse and unbidden. "Where...are...my...pills?" A tear rolls down his cheek, dropping much too smoothly off his face. His left hand shoots up to his jaw, checking out what his mind already suspects.

"Who shaved me?"

_CHINKCHINKCHINKCHINK_

"God_damn_ it."

The boy slips off his stool, races for the door as he fumbles with the key around his neck. The door opens before he can manage to reach the lock.

The woman ambles through the entrance, her name just barely tickling the fringes of House's memory. _Louise? Lucy? _He's seen her before. Last night, perhaps? She of the soup and Brillo pad hair, the night and the cloying floral scent. Her dark eyes move about the room, landing on House briefly before settling on the kid. The boy meets her gaze, then propels himself forward, burrowing into her, laying his head against her breast and wrapping his arms around her pillow-like frame. One of her meaty hands rubs his back as her gaze falls on House again. "It's alright, Jeffery, you did good."

"I got scared." His voice shivers like an autumn leaf clinging to its spindly branch.

"You did fine. Can you recite the third verse of Stefan's Writ for me?" With two hands, she holds him at arms length, waiting.

Bowing his head, he inhales deeply, licks his lips before intoning in a reed thin voice, _"All strength begins within. One brave seed of mind can win the weary battle and keep the non-believers at bay. Believe, believe in The Rising of the-."_

"I gotta pee!"

They glare at House like he has violated every holy tenet ever scrawled in pen, pencil, crayon or blood.

"Go now," she tells Jeffery, patting his back and sending him out the door. She sighs and hangs her head, pushing the door shut.

"I need my pills."

She murmurs to herself as she retrieves a ring of keys from her pocket. Heading toward the closet, she flips through them a couple of times. They jangle merrily, then stop abruptly as she finds the one she needs. She opens the door and removes a red tunic and white trousers from their hangers. After giving them the once over and brushing them off lightly with two fingers, she reaches inside the closet again.

"Don't forget _my _clothes while you're in there," House calls, suddenly more distraught over the panic in his tone than where his stuff might be.

Louise or Lana or Lilly has snagged a battered wooden cane from the rear of the closet. With its huge hooked handle and immense rubber tip, it would look just fine under the shivering grip of some lame old guy in a nursing home. Its surface is chipped and scraped, evidence of a life of loyal service to some ancient geezer.

House raises his eyes to meet hers. "That's not my cane."

"It is now, child."

"Those aren't my clothes."

"Sure they are."

She holds them out to him like an offering, and he returns the favor with a narrow eyed look of disbelief.

"Kidnapping is a crime, last I heard," he says matter-of-factly, his tone belying the awful twist in his gut.

She sits beside him, tossing out a sharp _tut, tut_ as she lays those dreadful red and white clothes on the end of the bed. "Kidnapping?" she says with a derisive huff. "We saved your life."

House cocks his head, rubbing two fingers against his brow as he glares at her. "You drugged me."

"Oh, _pshaw! _Just a bit of Passionflower in your soup." Her smile is warm, motherly. "It didn't hurt you none."

"Harmine." The name of the active substance in the Passionflower herb, floats through his grey matter to roll off his tongue. "Or Telepathine, as it's also called, produces a feeling of euphoria. Used as a truth serum by the Germans in World War II." He gives her a lingering, questioning look. "I need to leave here. I should go home. Bill will be wondering-"

"Bill, this, Bill that. All I heard from you in the car was Bill, Bill, Bill." She shakes her head. "He's doing you a world of harm, that man."

_Them's fightin' words_.

Right now, he wouldn't hesitate to end her life. A sharp object jabbed in the old jugular would do it. Watching the blood spray like a fountain to meld with the scarlet of her shirt would be...cool. "Don't... say that."

"You're cursed, Greg," Her voice is gentle as she pats his hand. "Way before your patient's father put it into perspective, that curse was there."

"Where are you getting this?"

"The Harmine." She nods and folds her arms. "Very potent, worked like a charm on you."

"I...don't want to talk to you," he says, but he is weak, confused and allows her to help him put on the freshly laundered 'uniform'.

"And guilt is an overriding factor of your existence," she continues. "Every day of your life is filled with pain, both physical and emotional. I see it in your aura. You confirmed it under the Harmine. The grim knowledge that your destiny is rife with misery and isolation will eventually do you in." She plants one hand against her chest and gives him a look that is both earnest and distraught. "We will help you effect a change for the better."

He fixes her with one of his most prized sneers, the one he pulls out when he really wants to assert his superiority. But Lulu or Lottie just folds her hands in her lap and meets his arrogance head on.

"I...want my cane," he tells her.

"It's black. It's got flames. That's not positive. It's not what we're about."

"I don't care what you're about," The tremor in his voice is back from its lunch break. "I'm here against my will."

"Stefan will explain everything to you."

"You shaved me."

"Facial hair is a no-no."

"This is a cult."

"Don't equate what we do here with 'cults'." She spits that last word out like a curse. "We are the Church of the Age of Rising. Our goal is to utilize positive energy to effect world change."

"I need my pills."

"No drug use is allowed."

He grips her forearm, a little too hard.

"I can yell. Very loud." Her lips thin into a tight line. "We can incapacitate you quickly and easily. So please...back off."

His grip eases; he lets his hand fall to his lap. "I need my pills. You took me off the street, brought me here..." He wishes there were a window. Even in the daytime, the faintest hint of the moon shines through the blue. It would help to know Bill was watching. Why did he leave Bill? Why did he think he needed to escape?

"Vicodin is an opiate."

"It's for chronic pain." Something roils inside him, roils and churns and bucks and kicks. "I had an infarction years ago...resulted in muscle death. Now I'm in pain every single ding-dong day. You get it, sister? That's how I ended up with that oh, so prominent irrigation ditch in my thigh." He shakes his head, rubs the sickening smoothness of his jaw. "Bill tried to help. He really did."

"I know all about it."

_Of course you do. _"Detox isn't pretty." The plea in his tone makes him want to bang his head against the wall. "Heck, but maybe you'd enjoy seeing me in agony; maybe you'd get off on wiping up puke off your snowy white carpet."

Loopy Lana is silent for a moment, lowering her eyes as she considers this. "We will discuss it with Stefan."

The pain in his thigh sings its abrasive little tune, making him wince. "I have to pee," he says softly.

"Of course, child." Smiling, she touches his shoulder and hands him the old man cane. "Of course."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It could have been worse, many times worse. Filing the missing persons report was not the excruciating process Wilson had anticipated. The officer seated across from him and Cuddy at that ancient wooden desk was actually civil. And she listened, really listened, all the while typing the facts into her PC. Yes, Officer Emily Boxner was a most considerate law enforcement agent. Even Cuddy was put at ease by Boxner's amiable personality.

Lunchtime was on the horizon, but the large round clock on the wall failed to capture Boxner's attention. She was busy, focused on the task at hand, asking the usual questions in a tone tinged with concern and (dare Wilson think it?) warmth. She seemed impressed and grateful for the cache of information Wilson and Cuddy had prepared. Having the pertinent facts on hand, she told them, would save her a good deal of time in getting the actual investigation rolling.

She sifted through their notes with great deliberation: lists of people who had been with House seventy-two hours prior to his disappearance, folks who might wish him harm (a list that went on far too long), recent credit card statements, phone calls made before the unfortunate demise of House's cell.

Drug use? Alcohol use? Yes. Yes.

But the introduction of Faulkner into the mix caused Boxner's eyes to light up like a pair of hundred watt bulbs. Here was something more than interesting. Here was something...unusual and useful.

Prior to their meeting with Boxner, Wilson and Cuddy returned to House's apartment and took about a dozen photos of the Faulkner novels laid out in all their cryptic splendor. With any luck, the pictures would suffice and the police wouldn't feel the need to check out the shrine for themselves. The thought of cops barreling through House's wonderland, possibly finding more than they bargained for, caused Wilson's head to ache. He thought about the Vicodin that was squirreled away in every possible nook and cranny of the place--in light fixtures, under floorboards. Wilson couldn't possibly go on a scavenger hunt to find them all. Even if he did, he wouldn't feel comfortable transporting the multitude of vials out of there.

Time was whipping by like race cars at the Indy 500; exhaustion was setting in. There was so much to do. The bumpy ride through House's House of Horrors was gradually wearing him down.

Fortunately, Officer Boxner seemed satisfied with the photos, so maybe they would be enough to keep the wolves at bay. Although...she was a uniform, the one assigned the grunt work. Wouldn't she have to eventually pass the case along to the detectives? Those guys would be happy to hear of House's vanishing act, probably take their sweet ass time looking for him. House's reputation as an arrogant, drug addled bastard was well known within their ranks. But perhaps Officer Boxner's influence would be enough to get the case off to a good start.

_Hope, sunshine, lollipops and roses..._

Boxner asked if they had spoken with Faulkner. Cuddy said she left him a voicemail explaining the situation. Since they had no hard evidence proving Faulkner's involvement, he was under no obligation to return that call. He could refuse to cooperate, even if they did get him on the line. In that case, they would be forced to subpoena his records. If his lawyers and the D.A. clashed, no telling how long the battle could go on. But Boxner seemed untroubled by this. For now.

It was a real pleasure doing business with her. Boxner was young, blond, bright eyed, eager, concerned. Her attitude was infectious, and Cuddy seemed to have caught it, offering Wilson a rare grin when she left him later that afternoon. She had a good feeling. They were on the right track, she told him. They were doing the right thing.

_Hope, sunshine, lollipops..._

It was only when Wilson got the call on his cell phone thirty minutes later that he discovered Boxner's true motives. The realization was a low blow, a disappointment. His faith in human nature had been sullied once again.

Pretty girl cop with a journalist boyfriend looking for a lip smacking lead. What could be better?

Now Wilson sits facing Paul Emery, yet another character in the growing gallery of contestants in the "Where's Greg House?" game. The scene is set in a coffee shop around the corner from Princeton-Plainsboro. Emery, a staff writer for the _New York Ledger,_ is chatty, upbeat, his dark, wavy hair cropped close to his head. Like House, his face is decorated with stubble. But Emery's scruff is showy, perfectly groomed and sculpted to match the shape of his jaw and chin. Wilson hates it. But he can't say the same for the guy, who is a contradiction in terms. He is a bottom feeder, yes, but, like his cop girlfriend, he is too amiable to dislike. Charming his 'victims' is what Emery is about. Charm and likeability are the cards up his sleeve, and his path to his next chunky paycheck.

Emery shakes a dollop of ketchup on his plate, smiles as he dabs the end of a French fry into it with a flourish. "My paper is prepared to help you in your search for your friend."

Wilson watches the fry enter Emery's mouth, scrutinizing the bottom feeder as he chews. "Sure. Just as long as I cooperate and offer you exclusive rights to the story."

"Well...yeah."

"How is that going to help?" Wilson asks. The steam from his tea rises, causing condensation to form on his chin and lower lip. "Dr. House would detest having his life put out on the table for a pack of...of vultures to pick at. You're not the _Times._ You're the worst kind of journalist. You write for a sensationalist rag more interested in Nicole Kidman's latest boy toy, than what really matters in the world." He presses his napkin to his mouth, stifling the more hostile diatribes dancing on his tongue. From the looks of it, Emery wouldn't hesitate to take a heated comment out of context to make this situation a whole lot worse.

"Oh, my readers are extremely altruistic. I'm sure once they read of your plight they will jump at the chance to help."

"They'll want their moment of fame, their ounce of blood." Wilson shakes his head. "Dr. House wouldn't-"

"Why are you talking as if the doctor were here?" Emery pauses to sip his Coke. "Sorry to say he's not."

"Someone has to protect him. And you're not sorry at all." Wilson glowers.

Emery sighs, pushing his plate aside. He leans forward, folding his hands on his placemat. "Alright, let me put this to you in a way that might hold some real weight, Doctor Wilson."

The booth seems too wide, the half empty coffee shop cavernous. It is 2:00, too late for lunch, too soon for a mid-afternoon snack. He suddenly wishes Cuddy was here. At least then he would have a worthy ally. "Go on," is all he can say.

"My paper doesn't care how I get my stories. I can speak with 'reliable sources' or I can chat with you and your administrator." He flips the edge of his placemat with the rim of his thumb. "There is always a chance my 'reliable sources' will not be kind when they speak of your friend. But," Emery shrugs and affects a 'what can you do' grin, "I've gotta go with what I can get."

"So...you're a bastard."

"No." Emery snickers and waves a forefinger in Wilson's face. "If I were a bastard, I wouldn't be giving you an option. I'd just write the story any way I saw fit. That would be the easy way."

"I could sue you for slander."

"As long as there is a grain of truth in what I write, I don't think you'd have a leg to stand on."

"I could-"

"Look, why are you fighting me?" Emery holds out his hands. "I want to throw this story on the front page, to get you local attention before it all blows up nationally" He purses his lips, brings his hands together. "And it will go national. Dr. House has a reputation. He is a renowned diagnostician, a hero in the world of medicine. Is it true he's a drug addict?"

Wilson grits his teeth, his words slicing the air with sharp-edged precision. "He's on medication for chronic pain in...his...leg." His hands ball into tight fists that surreptitiously pummel his thighs.

"That is such a kick." Emery's brows rise almost to his hairline. "Do you realize this story could triple our circulation?"

"Great."

"You're going to thank me when it's over, Doctor."

Wilson rubs his brow, figuring that, yeah, yellow journalism is repulsive. But it's better than relying on a passel of cops who will most likely take a laissez-faire attitude about House's disappearance. Emery's right, Wilson is going to need his help: help of the cheap, sordid kind. House would probably approve. He loves those rags. Besides, the world is tabloid crazy. Perhaps the story of the disappearing doc will give the populous a new and worthy cause. Some loyal _Ledger _reader might recognize House, pick him out of a crowd...

Emery's leaning over, making notes in his impossibly small memo pad. As he writes, his shoulders shake from the force of his quiet laughter. The guy's enjoying his new assignment a bit too much.

"Alright." Wilson sighs, shrugs, and stares into his tepid tea, already thinking of the best way to break this to Cuddy. "Tell me what I have to do."


	20. Dragon Song

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **NaiveEve **and **Betz88**

**-20-**

"Dragon Song

He decides to take things slowly, let them think his mind is more muddled than it is, a wispy fuzz of cirrus cloud. He keeps his eyes on the chipped bathroom tiles as he pees, then zips up, just like a normal guy.

_But you're miles away from normal, aren't you?_

Judging by his look in the bathroom mirror, he figures that's about right. He is worn, frazzled, and could easily pass for an inmate in an asylum. Those eyes are huge, red-rimmed, framed by gray half moons, as if sleep has been a shadowy serpent, eluding him for weeks. His gaze scoots every which way. Here is a person easy to lead, to trip up, to send on a mission that can never be completed. He is all those things. But he is aware too. He may not know where he is. He may not have Bill to guide him. But he is aware.

_No, you haven't lost your mind. Not yet._

Whoever shaved him did a lousy job. The underside of his jaw is pinkish, scraped raw. Razor burn. His mouth looks odd, like it belongs to the big brother he never had. His dad's upper lip dips in the middle like that too. House scowls at his image; he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

Two fingers light on the tender skin as if to check his pulse. His thigh gives him a jolt at the same time, just to make sure he is paying attention.

_Sit down. Sit!_

Grabbing onto the edge of the sink for support, he manages to shuffle backwards then ease himself onto the closed lid of the toilet. From the depths of his throat comes a noise of barely restrained discomfort. Pain is closing in and he doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to have to beg for the meds that are rightfully his.

So he goes to that place, the land with the sun and the sand and the sea and that dot wa-ay off in the distance. A moment goes by, then another. He is just...tipping the scales...the pain ebbing, flowing...rocking up...and back.

A sturdy hand lands on his shoulder, causing him to jerk forward.. "I don't want to go," he croaks, waiting for the pounding in his head to subside, his breathing to slow.

The fingers tighten, digging into his shoulder blade.

"You said five minutes, Greg," the voice tells him. It's a man. House smells his man scent, a whiff of ghastly pomade mixed with body odor tickling the underside of a noxious floral fragrance. From hereon in he will be known as Dirtbag.

"No watch." House keeps his eyes closed as he twists his wrist to prove his point. "You took it, like you took everything else."

He hears someone breathing through their nose. He hears sandals shifting on the tiles (and there is a loose tile underfoot, House can hear its _click_-_a-click _as it wiggles in and out of its square space).

House can't help taking a reluctant squint.

"Stefan's waiting," Dirtbag tells him. The guy is tall, thick lipped, barrel-chested, and as vile looking as he smells.

It would be fun to blurt out some caustic response. He can actually think of a few. But he is not sure how Dirtbag might react. His green eyes stare at House with a mix of pity, antagonism and impatience. Maybe it's soup time or naptime, or maybe it's time to pray to the scarlet shirt gods.

House grabs the old man cane and thinks about hamburgers, fries, shakes and pies. He thinks about his diner and what Maggie might be doing now. He feels strange, floaty, weightless as he is led from the bathroom into the corridor, past long cherry wood tables, orchids in flowerpots, candles burning low in ornate brass holders. And from somewhere comes a hum...

_Something wicked..._

...a sound low enough to be almost unnoticeable. But he hears it, which only adds to this sense of alienation. It is like tramping through the mothership after being abducted and hypnotized. How did he get here? His mind is tripping him up again, his pain is pulling him down. The hum is kind of cool, pleasant, snaking into his entrails, making him feel like everything is okay. But it's not. He needs his meds; he needs...Bill.

_Differential, people...one, two, three!_

A hand falls on his shoulder again as they reach the living room. More candles, more flowers. Everyone is smiling. Red shirts dot the terrain. Some of the space cadets are seated on a long sectional sofa, others sit cross-legged on yoga mats. Orchids are everywhere, as if this is the land of Flower Gods and the Red Shirts are ju-ust visiting.

_Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm._The sound drones on, barely perceptible, like it's his little secret. Feels good. Is the room swaying or is it him?

_Give a little chuckle so no one knows you're afraid..._

He takes one tentative step, then another. Hands reach out to him, touching his trousers, the hem of his tunic. Someone leans forward, the tips of their fingers brushing the top of his cane hand. A path is cleared for him. The candles glow a bit too brightly, reflecting in the eyes of these shiny happy people as they sway.

_Stefan's waiting._

And here he is, Stefan, the man of the hour. The skin around his eyes crinkles as his smile broadens, as he reaches out one hand in welcome. His age? Hard to tell. Fifty five? Sixty? His hair is a mix of silver and blond, boyishly tousled, his bangs tossed carelessly across his brow. His face is angular with high cheekbones and a sharp, jutting chin, which gives him an almost feminine look. He is as small boned as a man-child. The guy couldn't punch his way out of a paper sack. So he must have a hunka, hunka burnin' charisma to keep his minions in line.

_And THAT disturbs you, doesn't it? Even through the euphoria, you know damn well it's wrong._

Stefan is ruddy cheeked, well tanned, looking like he should be on a tennis court, lobbing a few over the net. But no. He is here, illuminated by the inordinately bright flicker of candles, seated in a cushioned armchair, behind which, hangs a velour curtain. Siennas, deep reds and maize mix it up on the plush fabric to form a garden of paisley. Hippiedom at it's finest. Before him, his group of merry guys and gals sit in rapt anticipation, waiting for the word.

House is not interested in the word. He is more focused on the curtain. Beyond the curtain must be a window, beyond the window, a sky, the moon. Bill?

_Bill._House mouths the name and the hum in the room seems to intensify, causing his inner ear to purr its response.

"Don't be shy, child." Lois (Ah, yes, finally. Brillo hair's name slips nicely into that black hole in his memory) appears at his side, touches his elbow, leads him closer to 'da man'.

"Please welcome a healer to our church," Stefan says, his voice deep and lustrous, a nice complement to the pervasive hum. "This is Greg."

Lois squeezes his shoulder, urging him onward. He would like to protest but the group starts to intone some song that's makes him think of his piano. Some melodies chisel themselves into his grey matter, set up housekeeping and make themselves a cozy place. This is one of them.

"We've been waiting a long time for you, Greg," Stefan says.

House senses them staring at him; the feeling is like talons scraping a fine path down the nape of his neck. He swivels round to find that he is right. Not much remains behind their eyes. It's all been taken away, put in a closet like his cane and his clothes and his meds. Yet some spark is there. These cretins may be devoid of...self...but they are filled with wonder, with awe.

_They're all so darn glad to see you_.

He would like to try to leave the room, to show some small protestation, but the hum and the song continue to seduce him with that funny, warm all over feeling. The melody takes a little trip, invading his larynx, causing those vocal cords to vibrate just right until he is singing too.

"Very good, Greg." Lois rubs his upper arm, her eyes shimmering with tears, like a proud mother. "You've pleased Stefan."

Stefan nods, extending one finger, beckoning his new arrival to approach.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a funny old place, just like New York City is a funny old town. She likes the big buildings. Some of them have magic windows. Mom says if you stand on one side you can see out but the people on the other side can't see in. Mom would know because she has windows like that at work. She can look into a room and see the bad people but they can't see her. Does that mean she and Mom and Dad and Ariel and Marie are the bad people now? After all, _they_ can't see inside these big buildings. When she asked Dad he just gave her one of his best eyes wide-opened 'dad' looks and made his mouth a little circle. "Nooo, Bridge, of course not " he said. After that she felt better because she certainly didn't want to be one of the bad guys. No, sir!

She thinks this over as she walks down the aisle of the store. It's a pretty neat place, like nowhere she's ever been, which is good. She likes discovering new stuff, and doesn't feel scared or sad, even though she is alone.

This store is a lot different from the ones in the mall. Those are bright and colorful, with music playing-- the good stuff a kid can sing along with: _High School Musical_, Hannah Montana. Ariel likes Zac from _High School Musical, _but Bridget just likes the songs. Zac smiles too much, like he's got secret stuff locked away and doesn't want anyone to know it.

Blech!

What a weird old place this is: all grey and silver, black and white, like someone took a vacuum and sucked out all the colors. The floor is wooden and dusty and the floorboards make funny creaking sounds when she walks. _Eyeep, eyeep. _She tries to make the noise with her mouth, but it sounds more like the chirp of some silly bird than a squeaky floor.

There must be cats in here...somewhere. Bridget is familiar with that cat smell, since her best friend, Patsy Ann Dougherty, has four of them in her house. Everything about Patsy Ann smells like cats: her clothes, her books, her room. Bridget figures Patsy Ann must sleep with her cats at night, even the big stinky one named Gert.

"Where are you?" Bridget peers around one of the display cases to see if she can find the cat that must live here, but so far, no luck. If she does, she will pick him up, hold him in her arms and pet him as she looks at all the figures behind glass.

It's a storybook land in here! There are little silvery statues: cops and robbers and men smoking pipes, wearing big hats and holding magnifying glasses. There are wizards and dragons and ladies in long robes with hair that reaches down to their toes.

In the center of the store is the case she likes the best. Pressing her nose against the glass, she gazes into a big silver dragon's red eyes. He throws her a wink and shoots out a blast of fire that singes the glass, turning it a dusty grey. "Oooh," Bridget gasps but doesn't step back. Instead she takes a chance and presses her palm against the case, jaw dropping as the dragon heat warms her whole hand.

"Hellooo," croons the dragon. "My name is Mead. I am a dragon."

He sounds like one of the Muppets, a cross between Grover and Elmo.

"I know." Bridget crosses her arms and pouts. "I'm not some dumb little kid."

Mead's raises the scarlet rim of his dragon mouth, revealing great silver teeth. "I knew that."

"How come you sing everything?" she asks.

"Because I love to sing," Mead croons. "I am a grrr-aaand songster. Besides shooting out fire, it is wha-aat I d-ooo bessssst." The last note goes a bit too high, which causes Mead's voice to waver and crack.

"Hmmph." Bridget frowns, unimpressed.

"I am going to teach you a soooo-nnnng. Would yo-ou like tha-aat?"

With a shrug, Bridget says, "Guess so..." She is getting just an eensy bit bored.

"This will be ea-sssy; this will be fu-un."

"Great." Bridget yawns.

Mead tosses his head from side to side, then sprays a flume of fire at an unfortunate knight, who melts under the attack. "How sad." Mead's eyes turn blue.

"You're right. That is sad," Bridget agrees.

"Do you know Old McDonald?" Mead cocks his head.

"That's a baby song."

"You likee?"

"Yes, I guess I do...likee."

"Then I'm sure you will likee singing this to the tune of "Old McDonald." Mead clears his throat, emitting a black cloud of chimney gunk in the process. His eyes glow like blue diamonds as he sings, "R-E-I-C-H-E-N-B-A-C-H Falls."

She repeats it perfectly, like she used to do with the alphabet songs on Sesame Street. Bridget has a good memory. She always remembers where Mom leaves her car keys. She always remembers where the missing game pieces to Chutes and Ladders are. So it's pretty easy to remember the dragon's strange song.

She repeats it many times over as she takes a walk to the front window, as the figures in the cases sway and dance and join in the fun.

This is pretty funny, she thinks, falling into a spate of giggles, wishing for the first time that her family could be here. She is starting to feel sort of lonely, so she keeps singing to stay happy and to make sure the song sticks in her head. Mom and Dad, Ariel and Marie will want to hear it. Marie will really, really like it. She will clap her hands, and sing it too-

"Oh!" Bridget freezes in mid-step. Her mouth falls open as she takes in what is on the other side of the window. The man is there. The knight! She smiles and waves but he doesn't wave back; he just points at something beyond the glass.

He seems sad and looks a lot different from Mom's drawing. Bridget wonders why and then realizes that he has shaved. His face looks all clean and smooth, like Dad's in the morning. But Daddy hardly ever looks this sad.

Bridget waves harder this time, her hand going back and forth like a little Chinese fan. She stretches her mouth as wide as it will go, wanting to talk to him, to ask him to have lunch with her in New York City.

The R-E-I-C-H-E-N-B-A-C-H Falls song goes on and on. The dragon, the knights, the maidens and the cops and robbers shout it out like they are on a school bus going on a field trip. Their singing is too loud. Her teachers would scold them, tell them to 'keep it down', if they were here.

The window is really getting dirty. One grimy black streak criss-crosses another. X, X, X, X. The dirt is beginning to hide the sunlight and the sad man. But she can still see him moving closer and closer to the glass.

Something is wrong with his leg; he doesn't walk so good. Maybe he hurt himself playing soccer or football or hockey. Maybe she'll ask him sometime. But not now. Now he is busy; his face is pressed up against the window, He is tapping and pointing, tapping and pointing, like there is something in the window display he wants her to see.

"-C-H-E-N-B-"

"Oooh", Bridget breathes, following his lead, noticing the beautiful fairytale sword for the first time. It rests in a black velvet case next to golden rings and shiny silvery bracelets. Bridget wants to touch it but she doesn't think she should, since it's got beautiful red jewels in it. Kids aren't supposed to touch things like that.

But he wants her to do...something. Bridget knows he is really upset, because now he is pounding his fist against the window. This scares her a little because he is making the glass shiver and shake. If he keeps it up, the window will break into a hundred billion pieces, like the juice glass did when it fell off the kitchen counter onto the floor. Oh, man!

His eyes are very blue, very wide, like the dragon's. But she can hardly see them anymore. The dirty X's are covering them up, which makes her sad too. Dad said New York was dirty. Bridget guesses he was right.

Maybe she is supposed to give the man the sword; it might make him happy, might make him smile a little. She thinks about asking the dragon if that would be okay as she reaches over, as the song swirls around and around her head like a cardboard glider. Her pudgy fingers touch the blade, the red jewels. The pounding on the glass sounds like thunderclaps.

Everybody in the world is singing--

"Bridge?"

"...Falls!"

"It's just a summer storm, Bridge, it's alright."

Yawning, she rubs the sleep from her eyes and tilts her head back. Her dad looks down at her, making that funny little circle with his lips. "Long day, huh, Bridge?"

She remembers where she is now. After a day of shopping, they decided to take a cab to a restaurant 'way uptown', Mom told her. Everyone is squished into the backseat, except Mom, who is in the front with the driver.

"Baby fall asleep?" Ariel chides, smirking at her.

Rain splashes against the windows as the windshield wipers make that nice, funny _swish, swish_ noise. Thunder crashes and booms. Bridget thinks of the knight pounding the glass, of that sad, frightened look in his eyes.

"As soon as we get to the rest'rant, I'm going to teach you all a song," Bridget announces with no small sense of pride, ignoring her the roll of her older sister's eyes. "And, believe me, I think you're gonna likee it a lot."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The feeling is not unlike drowning, of losing breath, losing life seconds at a time. And just when he thinks the whole thing's finished, done, kaput and gone to black, he is permitted to come up for air, briefly, before being pushed down again.

He remembers...

Stefan. Yes, Stefan spoke to him like it was some damn privilege to be standing in the same space, breathing in the same air...handed him a book of writings...announced to the room that Greg House was going to be a great asset to the family...

..._whoosh_._And the tide takes him out again, pulls him under. There is a hum beneath the water, like a ground wire is loose, whipping and slicing through the murk. The sound follows him up...up...and he swallows air again and he's..._

...dinner. Yes, there was food at that long wooden table...He told them he couldn't eat the food...because...Bill said he was cursed and couldn't eat _that_...food, and he felt guilty about it. And everyone laughed ...Lois...the family...all of them except Stefan. Stefan smiled that tolerant, patient,

_(godlike?)_

smile, gazed at him with such understanding, he suddenly couldn't quite remember why he was putting up such a fuss. So he ate what was put before him. Salad: fresh lettuce, sprouts, green peppers, red peppers...a twist of lemon for taste

_(that's not a meal for a man. A man needs meat and potatoes). _

No soup. He was smart and refused the soup. But he drank the water...

_Didn't you?_

His eyelids are ten ton weights but he is a strong man, he can wrench them open. Lois is here, the family is here. A bevy of white and red, drifting...drifting ...like planets, stars, comets and asteroids, circling over him.

_...drank the water, didn't you? After that, everything became just a leetle beet muddy eh, señor?_

They read to him from the Writ, chanting passages over and over, until the words echo in his head, until he knows the tenets like he knows the names of the bones in his hand...

_He goes under again and decides to swim against the tide Maybe if he swims the other way, he can escape! Yes. But it doesn't seem to matter which direction he turns. He is not getting anywhere. The hum is always there, the chanting is always there...in his head. That's why..._

That's why.

He is rising, moving through water, through the dissipating fog and ends up back where he began. Lois's face floats over him like some wretched helium balloon. She looks like a crumpled patch of sun, world weary yet lustrous and bright. That mouth opens to reveal an endless tunnel, a dark maw. If he lets himself, he can fall right in, become part of everything she is. He struggles to keep his eyes open, licking his dry lips as her mouth opens and closes, forms words and phrases, as she chants, as she sings.

Time goes by, but time doesn't mean a hell of a lot when you can't find it in yourself to stay focused.

_Skunked again, old man._

Time goes by and another voice is chanting and singing, adding a different dimension to the family's vocal stylings.

_Let's give a real family welcome to Greg House. How about it folks? A team player, a man of the people. He knows all the words. Wow. Who says he's not focused?_

It is too difficult to fight anymore, too much of an effort to think. So he closes his eyes, lets the songs take him to a place he never thought he would go. Doesn't matter now, doesn't matter.

Their hands are on him, smoothing his cheeks, clasping his limp fingers. His head lolls as they finish their work and leave him...

...as they finally let him sleep.


	21. Progress

**A/N: **As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for her interest, help and encouragement.

**-21-**

"Progress"**  
**

On one's final day of relative anonymity what should one do to pass the time? Take in an art film in Soho? Skim through the_ Times_, while sipping an espresso at _Carlito's_? It certainly is an interesting, delightful predicament in which to find oneself, especially on a lazy Sunday morning.

Tomorrow he will drive to Princeton-Plainsboro, present himself and Greg's files to the lovely Dr. Cuddy. He will become an essential part of whatever team she has put together to find that poor lost soul of a physician. For Greg House is wandering out there. Somewhere. If he hasn't gotten himself into some unsightly mess, he will return home soon anyway. But no one knows that. Everyone who _loves _him must be worried sick.

_My, my, my, an impossibly stickity wicket._

Faulkner is past the worrying stage because he knows how this will end. But the same cannot be said for Johnny, who is beginning to make a career of his anxiety. His life revolves around working at the Qwiki-Mart in Lachine, an arts community in Montreal, returning at the end of his shift to huddle next to Sarah in their efficiency apartment to wait for news. As much as Faulkner tries to calm him, Johnny will never be convinced all is right with the world until Greg has left it.

Yes, Faulkner can see his point but, like he has declared more times than he can count: _everything you want will come in time, if you take some patience along for the ride_.

Johnny detests that simpering mantra Faulkner torments him with when the mood is right. Mother used to sing it when Faulkner was a child. To be honest, he didn't care for it much either. But Mother needed to drill it into him, teach him that anything worth having is worth waiting for. He learned. It took an entire childhood and most of his pubescent years. But he learned.

So...what should he do? Sitting at his desk, he ponders the hours at his disposal. Dr. Cuddy's voicemail plays for the seventh or eight go-round, as Faulkner presses the tip of the jewel encrusted sword to his chin. Hiding in plain sight might be fun. Returning to Princeton-Plainsboro to pose as someone's distraught family member might be just the thing to end the weekend right, a grand prelude of what is to come. Yes! His heartbeat quickens now. He could seat himself next to some comatose non-entity, whose family continues to pay the bills but stopped carrying the emotional baggage weeks, months...years before. No one would question a forlorn, unshaven, distant relative, clad in a baseball cap, baggy work shirt, jeans and sneakers that had been ready for the trash bin two decades ago. Nobody wants to deal with someone like that. He will be avoided, left to fend for himself.

Which is exactly what he wants.

Anonymity will allow him to get a sense of the mood of the place. How has the disappearance of one of their own affected morale? Will the fact that the doctor in question is a thorn in the side of most everyone on staff make a difference? Or will it be business as usual? True, onl two days have passed. It is the weekend. But compelling news tinged with tragedy travels fast and hits hard.

The main players will probably be missing in action. Doctors like Cuddy and Wilson have better things to do than spend Sunday at the office.

"But then," he thinks, tapping the tip of the blade against a front tooth, "maybe not."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Progress has been made, Wilson tells himself...again, as he watches the technician install the new phone in the vacant office down the hall from to his own. It is Sunday morning. What do normal people do on Sunday morning? They go to church, sleep in or eat pancakes and eggs, maybe play with the dog. Hanging around while a technician puts in an information hotline, is not on his top ten list of favorite Sunday morning activities. And where the hell do you find a telephone tech guy to work on a Sunday? Leave it to the cops and Peter Emery. The tech must be getting quadruple overtime and a half.

_And here I am...moping around, watching the guy open three phone lines so that every loon in creation will be calling to claim they've seen the "Disappearing Doc."_

Wilson can't wait.

Cuddy was not happy to learn Wilson took it upon himself to make arrangements with Peter Emery without consulting her. But what other choice did he have? She might have bitched and moaned and groused had she been with them in that coffee shop. But the end result would have been the same.

The office is sparsely furnished with a utilitarian metal desk, a rolling chair that squeals under the slightest bit of pressure, a file cabinet filled with more dust bunnies than folders, a PC, and now...a phone.

"How's it going?"

He turns to see Cuddy leaning against the half open door. She looks tired and about three miles past disgusted.

"Good. Gil here is making progress." Folding his arms, he nods and sets his gaze on his shoes instead of her eyes.

"I just had a courtesy call from your pal, Emery." She tosses out the name like it's an old rusty can.

Wilson's head jerks up.

"So sorry we haven't had a chance to meet yet," she mimics in a bitter tone. "Such a sweetheart. He said he wants to drop off a copy of tomorrow's _Ledger._" Her frown deepens. "Wanted to make sure we'd be here."

"Oh...okay." He tilts his head, narrows his gaze. "What else?"

"You could have told me about the reward," she blurts out.

A muscle spasms in Wilson's cheek. He winces, setting two fingers against the tic. It's like a tiny bug is pushing against the skin,

With a knowing grin, phone guy Gil slows his work; his gaze ping-pongs from Wilson to Cuddy and back again.

"Little pitchers..." Cuddy tosses the tech a icy glare, then jerks her chin toward the hallway, indicating for Wilson to follow.

"What's wrong with offering a reward?" he asks, falling into step beside her. "Emery said it's what stirs people into action. They'll be more likely to-"

"How much _are_ you offering?"

Wilson stops in his tracks. He gives her a helpless look as he backs against the wall, like a strong hand has put him in his place.

"He didn't tell you?"

"I wanted to hear it from you."

"He would have-"

"How much, James?" she asks softly.

He swallows hard. "Ten thousand dollars."

Someone calls a code. Three nurses barrel down the corridor, pushing a crash cart.

Cuddy observes the action until the team disappears around the corner. "Why didn't you ask me first?"

Wilson lifts his shoulders. "I just-"

"You..._just._"

"Emery gave me the option. I just went for it."

"And you didn't think to ask me."

"Lisa, I'm sorry, the money is coming out of my pocket. It's hasn't got anything to do with the hospital. It's something I wanted...needed to do-"

"You wanted to do it." A tear slips down her cheek. "_You!"_

"What?" He raises his arms, then lets them slap heavily against his sides.

"Call Emery. Tell him we're upping the reward money to twenty grand."

His mouth falls open.

"You could have...asked me first, James." She rubs at her eye with the heel of one hand, ruining her mascara. She switches around, heels _click-clacking_ against the linoleum as she trounces away.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Intermission. Joe sips from his Poland Springs bottle, Allison digs one finger deep into her box of Junior Mints. Back home the same candy would have cost eighty-nine cents. But theater Junior Mints must be different, perhaps made with the finest Bavarian chocolate or flakes of gold...or something. For the three dollars she paid, these confections should be served on a silver tray. It's amazing. It's...criminal, really. But this _is_ New York. And the Dubois family _is_ sitting third row center for _Beauty and the Beast _on Broadway. The cost reflects the privilege. She bites into the cool, chocolaty drop and thinks of other things.

"So...no dreams last night, Allison?" Joe asks, peering past her to look at the girls. Bridget and Marie are engaging their Belle and Beast dolls in conversation, while Ariel sits like a proper and prim lady of the theater, perusing her _Playbill. _

"No."

"How about Bridget?" He takes another sip of water and pats her hand. "Any more dreams of dragons and swords?"

"Not that she mentioned." Allison snags another mint, brings it to her lips, then freezes as her eyes go wide.

"What's wrong?"

Dead Kid sits on the lip of the stage, glowering, his gaze boring into hers. His bare legs dangle over the orchestra pit. Behind him, Alexandra holds her head high, smiling brightly as she twirls and dips. Her blue-black hair shimmers under the house lights.

"Nothing." She opens her mouth to receive the candy, then chews it slowly, regaining her composure with each sugary bite.

"That dream Bridget had the other night..."

"Mmm?"

"...about the knight and the store and the dragon?"

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking about it."

"You were?" Allison gives him a slow, surprised grin. She likes when Joe gets involved in interpreting the dreams. It means he's with her; it makes their connection that much stronger.

Lifting a finger, he squints in concentration. "Maybe it's what's in the store that's important."

"Could be."

"But that Reichenbach Falls tune has been on the top of Bridget's hit parade since she "learned"it, which could make it an even more substantial clue...

"I guess." Allison shrugs. She doesn't tell him that those same notions have been burning a trail through her grey matter since yesterday. Not that it matters. She's stuck. Up the proverbial creek without a revelation. Her main hope this morning was that she wouldn't be forced to ruminate over the knight today. _But no deal, Camille, _she thinks, tucking in the flap of the mints box.

Joe continues, "Because it came to me-"

The two dolls interrupt his flow. They are embroiled in a disagreement. Marie's Beast pops Bridget's Belle in the gut, which causes Belle to go down for the count. "Ooooh!" Bridget cries, as if the doll's pain is her own. Marie shows her amusement by throwing up her hands and squealing, while Ariel slaps her _Playbill _shut and rolls her eyes.

"Girls-" Allison warns.

"LISTEN TO HIM!" Dead Kid is standing on the stage now, legs apart, fists clenched at his side. It is a boxer's stance. Beside him, Alexandra freezes in mid-step, her head is thrown back. She slings one arm across her brow like a tragic chanteuse.

For a moment all the air is gone, sucked out of the room by some preternatural vacuum.

Clearing her throat, Allison plucks the water bottle from Joe's hand and takes a swig. The chocolaty mint taste is starting to make her stomach turn.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yes." She hands him his water then squeezes his arm, staring at the irate apparition onstage. "What were you saying...about the store?"

"If I remember correctly from one of my high school English classes-"

"That's going back a-ways hon." Allison grins, but that smile takes an abrupt hike. Dead Kid's ire is causing the building to tremble. Not that the audience knows...

"Yeah, I guess so, Miss Spring Chicken."

The house lights flicker. Two minute warning. Intermission is just about over. The crowd is filing in from the lobby, flush with drinks, snacks and souvenirs.

"Go on, Joe."

"I'll tell you later."

The room shakes harder; the needle falls off the Richter scale.

She leans in close and whispers, "I think you'd better tell me now."

"I just don't know what this has to do with anything."

The floor rumbles beneath her as her chair shimmies and bucks.

"Just...tell me."

"Reichenbach Falls is a real place. It's in Switzerland," he tells her as the lights go down and the music swells. "Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about it in one of his stories..."

"Oh?"

"...the one where Professor Moriarty pushes Sherlock Holmes to his death."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Her name is Samantha Alger. A stunning young woman. Unfortunately, she resides in her coma and cannot blush under his appreciative scrutiny. Too bad. She would look even more beautiful with a rosy flush gracing her cheeks. Her auburn hair spreads against her pillow like a fan, those rosebud lips part ever so slightly. Her skin is like porcelain, like clean snow on a barren landscape, marred by a spray of pale freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.

She is Sleeping Beauty. She is Snow White waiting for her prince's kiss.

He sighs, tugs his Yankees cap a little lower over his brow and forces himself to get his mind back on track.

The day has gone well, so far. The heart-melting diversion lying in bed seven of the coma ward is only one of his fortuitous finds.

He smiles gently at his beauty, before drifting further down the aisle to sit by Ellen again. This lady is eighty-four years old and floats in the same half-life as Samantha. According to her chart, was admitted three days ago with severe pains in her legs and arms. Hours after her admission and initial examination, she fell into a coma. As a patient of Dr. House, she should be getting the best of care. But from her chart, Faulkner gleans that nothing much has been done for her. He surmises that the diagnostic team just hasn't been functioning on full steam without their boss.

How sad.

"Charles?"

Nurse Monica is here. She is fiftyish, plump, apple cheeked, cute in a homespun,_Good Housekeeping _magazine sort of way. She makes a great show of checking charts and IV bags, attempting to keep her mind on her work but finding Faulkner's presence a pleasant distraction. "You're still here. You should get some lunch."

"Oh, " Faulkner plays the role of Charles, Ellen's nephew. Charles lacks confidence and social graces. He is kind of shy but is a good guy, a solid guy. Just the sort of man Nurse Monica would like to have in her life. The hopeful look in her eyes and her lonesome ring finger tells him she is ready and willing. So Faulkner relates his fabricated story, raises her hopes of companionship by confiding in her.

Of course he will let her down. Tonight she will probably sob a bit, thinking about that nice man in the coma ward. _Tsk, tsk, tsk._

Charles hasn't spoken with Auntie Ellen for many months and has now come home to make amends-only to discover...she is slipping away. He brushes one hand across his brow and fixes Nurse Monica with a piteous look. "I was waiting around, hoping Dr. House might show up. I would love to have a word with him about my aunt's case."

"Oh, my. Dr. House-" For a moment she loses the ability to speak. Her wide pink mouth falls open as she places a hand against her breast. "I really shouldn't be talking about this."

"It's alright," Faulkner/Charles says, gazing earnestly into her eyes before switching his focus to the hands folding and unfolding in his lap.

"He's gone missing." She blurts out, then slaps a hand against her mouth. A soft sob escapes her as she turns away.

Faulkner bites his lower lip, squelching a grin. "Why, that's terrible."

"Yes," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose before managing to continue. "I heard he'd been having some emotional problems."

"Doctors have it rough sometimes."

"He's not well liked around here, kind of a gruff character." She sniffs, dabs her eyes with a tissue before checking Ellen's chart again. "But he's brilliant. He's helped so many people."

"I see."

"He had some mishap with a scalpel recently, bled all over the gallery floor. He was observing an operation up there and..." Her voice trails off as she slowly shakes her head.

Faulkner scratches his stubble, his eyes wide with concern. "Oh, my."

"Some of the nurses don't like him, but he never gave me a problem." She tosses "Charlie" a brave grin, before leaning over to scribble something on Ellen's chart.

"Really?"

"It's terrible."

"I'm sure." He pushes back his chair and steps away from the bed.

"Are you leaving now?"

Is that a flicker of disappointment jet skiing across her face?

"Yes, I should go."

"I get a break in five minutes," she says. It wasn't easy for her to get the words out, judging by the blush riding up her neck. "Would you like to have lunch?"

_You wouldn't like me, _he thinks, sensing the power, that urge building inside him again. Dorie's ardor will fade when he eventually tells her Sayonara. But Monica is too nice to be treated with such callousness.. She doesn't have issues. She is a pleasant package, a little big around the ass, but still...

_"No__,"_he decides. He will need to focus on Greg...and future pal, Dr. Cuddy.

"You're very kind," he says. "Maybe next time." He heads toward the door, already anticipating what tomorrow might bring. "Good luck with your doctor friend."

"Thank you." Her voice seems distant, like she is adrift and alone in the center of the big blue sea.

But to Faulkner, she is gone, filed away in the annals of history. She is unimportant, insubstantial. Dust. He walks on, trading the cool blue illumination of the coma ward for the harsh fluorescence of the corridor. Wandering around the lobby before heading home sounds like a good idea. So he strolls by the reception desk, spies an abandoned newspaper on a chair and sits. He opens the paper to the sports page, and peers over the top...

...and is oh, so glad he is here.

His eyes track Dr. Cuddy as she darts past him toward reception. A young man with close cropped brown hair leans against the desk, waiting for her. He wears Dockers, a light stubble, a smarmy little grin, and is truly a nauseating piece of work.

He greets Cuddy with a handshake and a lift of a brow, then offers her a folded newspaper, which Cuddy accepts with a wary look. She gazes at the front page, then with some hesitation opens the paper and bites her lower lip, her eyes narrowing as she reads.

But the front page is all Faulkner needs to see to make his spirits soar. It is _The Ledger. _Trashy tabloid crap. It is somehow fitting that Gregory House be featured in a rag like this.

"Disappearing Doc!" the headline screams. Beneath it is a photo of Greg, taken at some function, probably some big hospital to-do. He wears a tux, and has that unfocused look of someone who's been partying just a bit too hard. His bowtie is askew, his hair stands up in little sprigs and tufts, like a bird has made its nest in it. A cigar is jammed between his teeth, and his hands are poised over piano keys. He looks unusually _nice_, as if for that one instance, that single click of the lens, he is at peace with the world.

Dr. Cuddy slaps the pages closed, folds the paper and tucks it under her arm. Her chest heaves, her lips tighten...and those eyes. My, my. Those eyes exude molten heat, overflowing with a venomous wrath. With a haughty tilt of her head, she motions the Docker guy to follow her, and they make their way out of the reception area to somewhere more private.

Docker guy never loses his cool. Pursing his lips at Dr. Cuddy's prominent behind, he follows along at enough of a distance to treat himself to an excellent view.

Smarmy bastard.

As they turn the corner, Faulkner tosses his newspaper onto the adjacent seat, then makes his way toward the door. He has had enough excitement for one day.

_And tomorrow,_ he muses, permitting himself the luxury of a broad, anticipatory grin,_will be even more interesting_.

He can't wait.


	22. Ready To Rumble

**A/N: **Happy holidays and thanks for reading! In this chapter you'll find a mention of a Neural Noise Synthesizer, a machine that really exists. It is used to play with brainwaves and can change moods, bring about euphoria, etc. You can Google to find out more!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for all the help and encouragement.

**-22-**

"Ready To Rumble"

She thinks it is too soon. She feels Greg isn't ready to join them on the church's weekly recruitment drive. He should be spending the day studying the Writ and learning the ways of his new found family.

But Stefan wants him out and about to experience a sense of community, of 'oneness' with the church.

The day before Lois 'recruited' (don't call it kidnapping) Greg on the library steps, Stefan made a prediction. He declared he had been blessed with a vision: the stars were aligned, the moon was in the proper house, and the time had arrived for another recruitment mission. Lois can still hear him singing the gospel, raising his hands high at the nightly church meeting. Someone extraordinary was out there, someone _born_ to make a difference, to be an essential part of the Rising Age.

Later, when he reiterated his certainty to her, his hands moved in a way more suited to a Vegas magician than a prophet of the Rising Age.

That sinister, razzle-dazzle motion unnerved her. Lois hadn't liked that look in his eyes or the way he was trying to sucker her in.

Because she knows...persuading someone with words is one thing. Plying them with a drug and 'taking' them went against the teachings of the church and everything Stefan put forth in his early writings.

_'Free will is freedom within the community. Freedom of choice is the way of the Rising Age. To better yourself through freedom of choice is in direct correlation with the betterment of the church.'_

But that was when they worked in _Starshine _in Astoria, Queens, selling Tibetan singing bowls, crystals, Tinghaws, and guardian angel pins. They had seen too much of life, spent years making up for bad choices and plain bad luck. Eventually the stars aligned and their paths crossed. They ended up as best friends. Stefan fancied himself the next L. Ron Hubbard, staying up past midnight each night to craft his Writ. Lois was his occasional collaborator, and the one person who had faith his starry-eyed notions could actually become the foundation for the Church of the Rising Age.

It seems like an eon has passed since those first ideas had been laid down. But, really, it wasn't that long ago.

That night on the library steps, Lois originally decided to ignore any opportunity to bring some poor soul to his 'destiny'. She would tell Stefan the pickings were not up to his standard and maybe this was a sign that what they were doing was wrong. There had to be better ways of procuring new 'stock'. Surely the Sunday recruitment drives should be sufficient. But the sad fact was, they weren't.

Unfortunately, Greg had the misfortune to show up, so troubled and vulnerable, so obviously under the influence of this Bill person. He was perfect, the sort of lost soul Stefan could mold to his liking, use the Neural Noise Synthesizer to mess with his brainwaves and turn him into a happy, dull-eyed member of the flock.

Yes. Greg was easy pickin's, and Lois knew Stefan would be pleased with this ounce of new blood. Although at the last minute she did consider letting him go. It was her conscience and sense of self-preservation that got the better of her. She figured if she brought this one back, maybe Stefan would be satisfied and not involve her in a repeat performance for a while. In fact, as they were trundling Greg into the car, she made a silent vow to concoct a brilliant plan, tell Stefan she had some sort of apocalyptic vision that this was a dangerous manner in which to proceed.

He might believe it. But then...

Stefan's logic is difficult to figure. Time was they could almost read each other's thoughts. These days she second guesses his motives more often than not.

One thing she knows for sure: Stefan is as full of shit as he is of himself.

She noticed a new 'recruit' at last night's indoctrination. Little doe-eyed thing, with wispy blond hair and an overbite. The girl was probably no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Stefan is crafty, careful not to invite jailbait to the townhouse. One thing he doesn't want is the police knocking on the door, shutting his operation down.

Lately there have been a good number of Pretty Little Things coming and going. So many, in fact, Stefan has rented an apartment on East 52nd Street for "private church meetings".

Sometimes Stefan meets the Pretty Little Things on his travels, brings them back to the fold, is attentive to them for a period of days or weeks. Their private meetings linger over a few consecutive nights. Then as quickly as they appeared, they vanish.

The thought of him cavorting with these young women makes Lois cringe.

The purr of the Econoline van's motor lulls her. D.G. is driving today, bringing them to their usual corner on Eighth Street in the Village. The residents of this neighborhood are younger, hipper, more likely to be open to the church's tenets than those in mid-town. Edgy tourists, denizens of the 'burbs wander there, complaining to the cops or making an effort to steer clear of Lois and her flock.

Lois enjoys these outings. Meeting perspective recruits and fielding their questions reminds her of why she continues to respect the church and its tenets. The give and take and easy flow of conversation makes her feel smarter than she is. But Greg, he really shouldn't be here. His tainted aura is wrapped around him, tight as a dirty old shroud. Sadly, though his medical training is surely exemplary (the 'Head of Diagnostics' business card in his wallet coupled with his hospital parking pass said volumes), he may be too far gone to become a productive member of the church. He sits next to her, staring at the sky with that forlorn look, like he is pining for something...someone.

Whoever this Bill is, he has his hands tightly on the reins. He is Greg's security, his virtual presence warding off the loneliness that comes from a forced separation. The man in the moon is forever up there, watching...listening.

Greg refuses to put up a struggle against him, as if to do so would add to the curse, to the dirty dark colors settling like dust on his shoulders. Last night, even under the influence of the Passionflower herb and Stefan's Neural Noise Synthesizer, Greg could not be convinced to fight. Suggesting that he shield himself from Best Friend Bill's powerful hold was like trying to break through a brick wall with a plastic hammer. No way it was going to happen.

The combination of brainwave entrainment and the mind altering substance should have made a crack in the surface, where Lois could eventually dig deeper into Greg's psyche to plant a seed. But this morning, Greg was still yearning for Bill and, of all things, a hamburger. They would need to work on gradually weaning Greg off Bill's influence, while building up the church's importance in Greg's mind.

She considered allowing him to detox. From her days working in a halfway house, she knows how important it is to be clean and sober and remain that way.

But dealing with the ravages of Greg's detoxing: getting him through the sweats, the vomiting, the shakes, the emotional slide into hell, would suck up the energy she would need to expend on other church matters.

On her next birthday, she will turn sixty-seven. That vigor and the love of life she used to take for granted is pretty much gone. She really should have opened that little New Age shop in Vermont when she'd had the money--the money she threw into the development of the church. But Stefan assured her the richness of her life in the Rising Age would lead her down a more rewarding path than gold ever could.

She is still waiting.

So she will do something helpful, righteous and kind: surreptitiously dole out Greg's pills: two in the morning, two in the afternoon and maybe three before bed to make sure he sleeps.

Stefan will never know.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He feels like a schoolboy who has been taken by the hand and led away on a day trip.

_You've been so many places in your life and time..._

Words to a song. It's one he likes, one that's slow, soulful, _meaningful._He wishes he could remember the rest of it.

But he has regressed to a state where songs like that are for other people: the ones who are clear thinking, who don't have cumulus clouds sticking out of their ears. He can't be expected to remember much more than a line or two. It is too difficult, too much work. One day he will ask Bill, because Bill knows everything.

_You used to know lots of stuff..._

The thought of Bill causes him to frown, his insides to shrivel and go cold. What if he never sees Bill again? His throat constricts; his breath hitches in his chest. A gentle hand on his arm gradually brings him back to the world.

"We're here, Greg," Lois tells him.

He is glad to have arrived somewhere. The constant rolling of the wheels disturbed him. He needs to be _somewhere_, to feel the solid ground beneath his feet.

Lois takes him by the arm, hands him his old man cane as she helps him out of the van. Following along makes him feel secure. Letting the grownups lead him is good and right. Once they are on the street, she beckons for him to lean over so she can whisper in his ear.

"You're doing so well," she says, her warm minty breath tickling the little hairs inside his ear canal. "Can you recite The Glorious March for me?"

Immediately the first words of the Writ come to him, flowing from his mouth like they had been waiting all this Sunday morning to be liberated.

He runs his tongue across his lower lip as if to taste the residue the words might have left behind. He tastes oranges, muffin crumbs...ghosts of breakfast time.

Immediately he thinks of Megan, the diner, a turkey sandwich and fries on Wilson's plate, his own hand reaching out, snatching a fry, half of the sandwich.

Wilson._Wilson._

_A silver pen drifting into the black, shimmering, winking, swimming in velvet...gone._

He is stricken with a pain so deep, he hardly feels it at first, but he knows it's there, twisting his gut, rising to his throat.

Wilson.

Tears are like tiny knives, jabbing hot and sticking him behind his eyes.

When was the last time they spoke? He leans against a post, rubs his brow, trying to pull up the memory. But it is a stubborn thing, refusing to be wrenched from its hidey-hole. True, he is not supposed to think about Wilson (the guy is so _over)._

_But you want to sooo much. _

Bill's face drifts before him, now solemn and determined, now filled with hurt and disappointment.

_How could you do this to meee--eeee?_

The family is busy. They don't know what he is thinking. For awhile he thought they knew everything about him. They seem to know about Bill, but he doesn't think they know about Wilson. He will try to make sure they never do. For some reason, it just wouldn't be right.

Three men haul a long aluminum folding table from the back of the van. They set it up on the sidewalk, expanding it to its full length and extending the legs: one, two, three, four.

Two women haul over folding chairs. One...two...three. Some of the group will have to stand. The fact fills him with trepidation. He hopes he is not one of the unfortunate ones. His leg is not having a fun day. He doesn't know how long it will tolerate being used...

_No one likes being used._

Lois drifts past, watching him. In one hand is a bunch of flyers, the other holds paperbound copies of Stefan's Writ. She tries on a smile but it doesn't quite fit.

They are getting some curious looks now, folks strolling by on this sunny Sunday morning, gliding past the family and these odd little shops. Over there is a florist. The arrangements are colorful and bright and House likes them, although he wouldn't know a peony from a petunia. He thinks he would like to smell them.

Then there is a store with a gate across the windows and door. It is dark in there, but something is immersed inside the murk. Something interesting. He wants...no, he needs to see what's inside. To move closer might attract attention, so he remains where he is until he sort of disappears.

No one is watching him now. Lois is deep in conversation with two boys wearing tie-dyed shirts, and caps with peace signs on the brims. The others mill about, handing out flyers, smiling their vacant smiles at everyone who passes. So he takes one careful step, then another. Stop. Head down. Take a step, then another. Head down. His heart leaps as cool, rusted metal brushes the tops of the fingers clasped to his chest. He wills his invisibility to hold just a few minutes more. _Please._ Waiting...waiting.

_Breathe_

He sees silver and pewter figurines, castles and knights...

...princesses and fairies...

...towers...a dragon with blue eyes...

...a jewel encrusted sword.

His jaw drops, fingers spreading, straining, reaching through the long, slim spaces between the bars of the gate.

The blade's red stones wink at him, taunting him through shadows and slants of sunlight.

_...castles and knights..._

..._princesses and fairies..._

..._a jewel encrusted sword..._

His fists pound the gate, causing it to rattle like a cage made of bones, its base scraping and _scritching_ against the concrete.

Behind him comes a shout, sudden movements, leather soles scuffle against cement. Not much time.

His grip tightens around the bars. He shakes them...hard. The metal does an excellent job of protecting the storefront, cutting him, fighting him, scraping the skin off his knuckles. But he is numb to the pain; he keeps at it. Blood dots the window, the gate, dripping down to adorn his sandals and the cuffs of his white pants. He shouts something hoarse and obscene.

"I need it," is the last thing he yells before being wrenched away.

But he is a strong man and somehow manages to whip round and jab some red shirt in the gut with the brutish, oversized cane. Red shirt turns out to be D.G., the guy who drove them here. He is a big guy, broad shoulders, taller than House. Even so, when House connects, D.G. rears back, eyes widening in surprise and pain, storm clouds swarming like vultures over his head. Then he closes his eyes, calming himself, seeming to remember how pacifism is the key,_antagonism and violence are the two hands of evil. _

House's thoughts are like blades, slashing the air. Perhaps a little bit of violence goes a long way. Yes, maybe this is that new day Stefan rhapsodizes about so effusively in his writings.

The cane feels heavy, like a lead pipe in his blood spattered, white-knuckled grip as he wields it before him, ready to take on all comers.

"Greg."

_Lois. Oh, dear, watch out for her with her soft tone and her gentle, motherly touch._

For that one moment, that one inkling in time he is distracted. But that is all it takes. D.G. is behind him now, wrapping his arm around House's neck.

_D.G. D.G? Don Giovanni maybe. That's a pretty prissy name for a wrestler._

Good ol' D.G. presses his bicep against one side of House's neck, the inner bone of the forearm against the other side.

_Maybe Diggin' Graves. Yeah, much better, a lot more descriptive._

D.G. squeezes House's neck inside his arm, tightening it so House goes down on his left knee.

_don't hurt him don't hurt him don't hurt him..._

Black and purple spots dance before him as the blood flow to his brain goes bye, bye.

_You being a wrestling fan know exactly what the guy is aiming to do, don't you, sport?_

The pressure around his throat increases and he goes limp, all the fight he mustered has packed its bags and headed home. He is down for the count, flat on his back, the sunlight hitting him like scorching white lights over the wrestling ring at Madison Square Garden.

_Damn good sleeper hold, D.G. Vince McMahon would be proud._

"I...need...it," House rasps, then looks away. He doesn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing that plea in his eyes. But they continue to stare at him, to accuse. He has done something wrong, something bad, gone against the family. They will want an apology, a penance.

_You need it._ _If you had your money, you could come back here. Get it. Yeah, you brought money with you when you started out. But they took it. They took everything._

Somewhere in a storage box, under virtual lock and key, is an emergency cache of strength: a little bit of left-over fortitude he will bring out if the need arises. But not yet, not now. Strong hands grip him under his arms, drag him back to the van. He might have blacked out for a moment because now they are moving, heading back to the homestead.

In his head he hears it, the call to arms, the battle cry: _Let's get ready to rumbullllllllle!_

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hartman was always better than Piscopo."

Allison nods in agreement with the knight. Phil Hartman did make a better Sinatra than Joe Piscopo on the old Saturday Night Live shows. The knight and Allison sit side by side on the single bed, watching Phil Hartman sing _New York, New York_. Hartman is dressed in his very best Sinatra finery: black tux, shiny shoes, like he is here fresh from an engagement at _The Sands_. His cologne is as strong and sharp as his sweat. The spotlight turns pink, then orange, then green as he moves across the raised parquet floor to sing another verse.

"Too bad Hartman's dead," Allison says.

"Wife shot him in his sleep.." The knight taps the base of his cane against the floor in time with the music.

Allison's pal is no longer a knight, of course, clad in his white pants, red shirt and sandals. But she has no idea what else to call him.

"Terrible."

"That's what happens when you get involved with the wrong people."

She raises a brow as the music swells. "Sometimes you can't help it."

"Shit happens."

She glances out the window behind the bed. The twilight pours into the room, velvety, purple, so pretty. Across the street is a store called _Reichenbach Falls._

"Ever go there?" she asks.

The question causes him to lower his head and sigh. "I...can't."

"Why not?"

He cocks his head at her. "They won't let me."

Hartman's Sinatra number is approaching its big finish. He raises his arms and belts out the assertion that if he can make it here, he can make it anywhere.

"He's good, "Allison says, but the knight's attention is elsewhere. He gazes longingly at _Reichenbach's_, then at the sky. If she is quiet and doesn't press, Allison is hopeful he will give her a clue to what is wrong.

"I need it." The knight tells her suddenly, his hands balled into tight fists. The knuckles are shredded and bloody. "The sword..."

"What sword?"

The knight shakes his head, as though he would like to answer but to do so would get him into serious trouble. He pushes himself off the bed and lopes past the crooner to the door.

"I want to help," she calls.

He tries the knob and doesn't seem too surprised to find the door locked. There is a hopeless air about him as he trudges back to the bed. He situates himself next to her again. This time she notices the tremor in his hands, the way his lips move as though he is working out a complex problem in his head.

"You can't help," he says. "No one can." Closing his eyes, he moves his lips again as he fades away.

_It's up to you New York, New York_. Hartman bows, then straightens to wink at her. "Go get 'em, chicky baby."

She jolts awake as she has countless times before. But this time her vision has given her a gift, an essential piece of the puzzle.

"Joe," she whispers, shaking him awake.

"Huh?" He rolls over, scrubs the sleep from his eyes, then squints at her.

"Joe." She smiles a knowing smile of discovery. "The knight. He's here. Bridget was right. He's here...in New York."


	23. Readiness

**A/N: **Happy New Year! Hope you all have a great one. Thanks for taking time to read and review.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for the constant encouragement and help.

**-23-**

**"**Readiness"

He takes his time and dresses with care. _Let's see_,_what to wear for this first meeting with Dr. Cuddy? Ah, yes: _ an off white dress shirt with a powder blue tie embellished with tiny silver-grey hexagons, add to that a navy blue Armani suit and black Georgio Brutini shoes. He exudes professionalism, openness and amiability.

The full-length mirror on back of the bedroom door reflects a man at the top of his game, a man on a quest for perfection. He must charm, cajole, win over his new prey, the same way he won over Greg.

_And now he is yours. No matter where he goes or what sorry state he is in, he belongs to you. That will never change._

He gives a short, sharp tug on the knot of his tie, smoothes his lapels and sets his features just right. _Let's see...show me_ _concern for your patient_: he furrows his brows and thins his lips._That's it._ _Now...show me your look of deep thinking, of where oh where can our dear Dr. House be?_: a slow, slight tilt of the head, a roll of the tongue across the lower lip, two fingers lightly touching the jaw...like so. _Very good. _And hope!_Give me that fabulous look, that color cover magazine smile. _ The hope that they will find Greg safe, sane and whole must be maintained. But no one knows what the future will bring, do they? Unforeseen stickety wickets can conspire to set a life twisting and turning in a fetid, dark wind, to ruin or even... end it.

He slicks his hair back with his palms and wonders: is Dr. Faulkner truly ready for Dr. Cuddy? She is sharp. No woman her age gets to be a Dean of Medicine on ravishing looks alone. Something deeper must be happening upstairs to give her an edge. But Faulkner is aware of his strengths, knows that the moment a woman ventures past his nondescript looks, to see _him_, to know _him, _she becomes his.

Dr. Cuddy most definitely _is_ a woman and so the possibility she will be immune to his charms is next to none. He is just too good. Tall strapping men with rock hard physiques and classic good looks have nothing on him.

_Nothing._

He gives one final scrutiny to the confident, stylishly dressed professional in the mirror and allows himself a tight, tiny smile.

He is ready.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

She sits in her straight backed chair by the door. Again. Her thoughts tumble over and over, like clothes in a dryer as she watches Greg sleep. She is feeling stale, depressed, her melancholy pressing down on her like D.G.'s meaty palm. She needs to get out of here. At least for a couple of hours. After yesterday's fiasco, she is surprised she hasn't packed whatever small cache of belongings she can still call her own and taken her permanent leave.

Her mind was elsewhere during today's Monday Morning Ritual, Stefan's words slithering eel-like through her head, as she attempted to figure what to do with her charge.

"He is your responsibility," Stefan told her bluntly when they delivered Greg back to the townhouse yesterday. "I'm out of it. Make him useful or make him go away."

_Callous fuck._

She surprised herself for even thinking the epithet. Time was she would have forced a penance on herself for such flagrant disrespect. Now she just doesn't care. She is a dreg at the bottom of the cup. There isn't much time left for her.

Making Greg 'go away' is tempting. She pictures driving him to midtown, opening the van door on 42nd and 5th, leaving him, his cane and his bag on the sidewalk. In his pocket would be a vial of pills and enough money to buy a return train ticket to Jersey. Stefan would insist on keeping most of the cash as a donation to the church.

She pictures Greg wandering through the crowd, lost, distraught, his physical wounds throbbing, his emotional damage dazing him like a one-two punch. The scene gets smaller and smaller, like she is watching it through the rearview as the van hurtles farther away, as the poor, confused soul is abandoned.

Guilt sinks its teeth into the soft center of her cerebrum. She can't find it in herself to leave him. Not yet, not until he can think more clearly.

_Who's fault is it that he can't?_

Partially hers, certainly. But the majority of Greg's problems stems from Bill, wherever and whoever he is. Now there's a guy knows who knows how to work his will on a mind. Lois hopes she can get through the rest of her days without ever making his acquaintance. He would fascinate her, intrigue her, and it wouldn't be long before he had his claws in her psyche too.

Greg spent most of yesterday sequestered in the small bedroom in the rear of the townhouse. Not wanting to trust his care to the others, Lois divided her time between tending to his torn knuckles and listening to him obsess about the jewel encrusted sword in the window of_Reichenbach's. _ He seemed to believe the sword wielded some sort of power over him. White magic or black, she couldn't tell. Regardless, ritualistic objects such as this were taboo under church law. But if she could have brought it to him at that moment, to assuage his fear, his growing desire for Bill and home, she would have.

He seemed spent after their conversation and sank into a restless doze. After watching him toss and turn, she stood and moved closer, attempting to decipher his mumblings. When that didn't work, she returned to her straight backed chair and let her eyes close. The sound of his chatter and snoring lulled her, and she slept.

She was jolted awake by sounds of crying, snuffling, more incoherency, then a series of pleas. To her surprise, Greg's entreaties were not for Bill--but for someone named Wilson.

It took a long while to get out of him that Wilson is a colleague, another doctor at the hospital. At one time Wilson was a confidante, a good friend, Greg's only friend. Now for some reason Greg wasn't supposed to talk about him. The repercussions for going against this self imposed edict would be to lose Bill. Forever. _Bill _was his best friend; _Bill_ cared for him more than anyone. Each mention of the man's name caused Greg to pound the bed with his fist, his eyes sparking with passion, hate, fear and obsession.

_Make him useful..._

Lois is no longer sure how to make Greg useful to the church or more importantly to himself. Before he could be of use to anyone, he had to find himself again. Lois has no professional training in psychology, but since co-founding the church, has dealt with enough emotionally needy souls to recognize the truly troubled ones. Greg has made himself a place near the top of that list.

His status as a department head at a teaching hospital tells her this downslide is probably recent. Sad to think someone with such talent and intelligence could take such a terrible tumble.

_...or make him gone._

Again she is torn by thoughts of keeping him here and working with him...or throwing him out.

She doesn't know what to do. There is no one to ask, no one to feed off of. It used to be she could turn to Stefan but not any more. After making sure Greg is asleep (this morning's extra dose of Vicodin should last him awhile), she pushes on her sandals...

...and goes out for a walk.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is the big day. Ariel's day. She poses in front of the full length mirror. Her blond hair falls in waves over her shoulders as she smiles the smile she has been practicing for a week. Her dress is two piece, sea green, with matching shoes on her size 5 feet and her mother's jade necklace dangling around her collar. She says 'thank you' to her reflection for about the twelfth time in ten minutes, adding a respectful bob of her head as an afterthought.

Stifling a chuckle, Allison walks over to fix her daughter's hem. She kneels down, smoothes a fold from the satiny rim of fabric, then rises.

"I am so proud of you," she tells Ariel with a soft smile. But gradually the smile is replaced by a somber, contemplative look. For a moment, Allison sees the woman her eldest daughter soon will be.

Nipping the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she struggles against those soppy tears hovering in the wings, intent on edging their way onto center stage. After a moment, they give up and scamper back to...wherever tears hide out. For now she has won the battle. Good. No sense being labeled corny by the star of the day. Ariel Dubois will be the first in their family to win a national award for a science fair project. Not even Joe, the rocket scientist, managed to come up with the goods back in his younger years.

Placing her hands on Ariel's shoulders, Allison cocks her head and gazes into those hazel eyes. They are so like Joe's, deep, inquisitive, restless. But there is a spark of Mommy in there too. Allison can see that fog swirling through Ariel's complex essence, can sense the potential for the 'sight'. The talent from Mom has revealed itself on more than one occasion. But it is dormant for now. This time it is Bridget's turn and that's a good thing. Ariel doesn't need the distractions 'the sight' can bring.

Joe is seated on the edge of the queen sized bed nearest the window. Marie is on his lap. Bridget is at his side playing patty-cake with herself. Joe's voice is soft, low, patient. Allison can hear him explaining the finer points of etiquette that go along with attending an awards ceremony. The girls nod and say 'yes, Daddy' in all the right places in the dialogue. Allison is relatively certain they will stick to their promises, that they will be good and quiet and_nice_ during the proceedings.

Ariel twirls before the mirror, setting Mommy's jade earrings dancing against her cheeks.

"How sweet." A sneering Dead Kid leans against the headboard of the vacant bed, wrapping his hands around his knees. "Sickly sweet with pralines. Damn, Allison. Your thoughts are way far off from where they should be." Those eyes are green missiles honing in on Target Ali. Their heat is searing, setting her skin bubbling and baking like a cheesy casserole. Placing two fingers lightly against her cheek, she almost expects to feel its flaking, ruined remnants.

"What happened to 'looking into' _Reichenbach Falls, _to see if it exists?" Dead Kid waves a solemn finger her way. "All you had to do was ask the guy at the desk to look it up."

"I am _busy_," she grouses in her head, hoping the pesky specter can hear her. No way does she want to get involved in a lively, loud discussion with someone only she can see.

"Busy, pffft!" Dead Kid is at her side now, hands on hips, that anger turning those green eyes a muddy brown.

Averting her gaze, Allison pretends he is about a mile away harassing some other hapless victim in a restaurant, park or bus stop. The thought gets her smiling again, as Ariel squeezes her hand, as Joe and the others do some last minute preparations for the day.

"Don't forget, Mom." Bridget rustles the crumpled sketch of the knight at her before stowing it in her pink-with-purple-polka-dots handbag. "We gotta keep our eyes open. He could be anywhere."

"An'where," Marie exclaims.

"This is Ariel's day, honey," Allison shoots a look at Dead Kid, which is a mistake. Her attention causes those eyes to bore through her again. "We have to-"

"Shut your cake hole and listen to the kid, Allison," Dead Kid pounds the wall with the palm of his hand. "At least someone has her priorities straight."

"And Daddy says if we're real good, we get to make the Rainbow News tonight."

"Is that all you think about, Bridget?" Ariel snaps. "What you want to do?"

"I just like making Rainbow News," Bridget replies with a shrug. "You do too."

"I have more important things to think about." Turning on her heel with a huff, Ariel steps into the bathroom and closes the door.

"Sometimes...Ariel can be a real snob," Bridget proclaims in her best big girl, matter-of-fact tone.

Marie pauses in the middle of playing with her father's fingers and looks up. "Snob."

"Girls-" Joe shakes his head and meets Allison's gaze. "What is she_doing_ in there?"

"You got me, hon."

"Ariel," he calls.

"Huh?" comes the response from beyond the door.

"We gotta get going. Time's a-wasting".

"I'm just fixing my face..."

Marie looks up at her father. "Ariel's broken?"

"No, honey-"

Allison turns toward the bathroom and finds herself nose to nose with Dead Kid. "Keep your eyes open," he hisses. "He could be anywhere. And if you find him, don't lose him. You may never get the opportunity to meet up with him again."

This is Ariel's day. As much as she would like to concentrate on finding the knight and getting to the bottom of the mystery, today is not the day for it. There is always tomorrow and the next day...and the whole damn week. Today belongs to Ariel--

"Hey." Bridget stomps past her mother and jabs her hands against her hips. "I wish you'd go away."

Mouth agape, Allison can only stare as Bridget pushes closer to Dead Kid.

"You're bothering us." Bridget pouts.

"I'm just trying to help." Suddenly his face drops; he looks shamed and spent, as gawky and naive as the kid he was before he shifted plains of existence.

"Hmmph," Bridget crosses her arms and considers him. "Well...okay. You can stay if you're quiet and only speak if you have something nice or important to say."

"Okay."

"And bring your friend back. She has pretty hair."

He nods as his form begins to fade. "Okay."

From the corner of her eye Allison can see Joe watching, wide-eyed as Marie plays 'horsie' on is lap. He says nothing; he knows better.

Allison lets out a long breath and plants an unsteady hand on Bridget's shoulder, more grateful than she can articulate for this unexpected intrusion. "Why...thank you, Bridget."

"He wouldn't stop."

"I know."

"Can we have spaghetti for lunch?"

"We'll see." Allison strokes her hair. "It's Ariel's day so she gets to choose."

The bathroom door opens and Ariel brushes past them. Her lips and cheeks are just a little too ultra glossy sparkly pink. Her perfume is just a little too flowery sweet . But those things are not worth mentioning. There are good things abounding, the day will bring wonderful stuff. Dead Kid is gone for the moment, the mystery of the knight put on hold for a little while. Normalcy will prevail...for a bit...

...which is all that matters for now.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She has herself half convinced that this Monday might progress like any other Monday. Paperwork is piled high in her inbox. Three résumés for the position of head of Pediatrics await her perusal. It is only 10 A.M. but the clinic waiting area is filled to capacity. House was scheduled for clinic duty at three but...

_But..._

No. Her shoulders slump. This Monday isn't at all like other Mondays. Come to think of it, today isn't like any other day she can recall. It is like spending time on another planet, in another solar system. Here the primary rule for remaining safe and sane is that you must make a really good show of knowing the routine. But you don't know it. Everything is twisted, skewed, a funhouse mirror of what is supposed to be. Wilson is upstairs checking with the officer on duty to see if any calls have come through on the hotline. A day at Princeton-Plainsboro that includes activity related to a telephone hotline is hardly run of the mill.

House is gone.

The words assault her like three sharp slaps to her cheeks, leaving phantom welts and a terrible lingering ache.

House is gone.

_And it's your fault._

Cuddy balls her hands into fists, leans her elbows on the desk and hunches forward, pressing her knuckles against her temples. The steady pounding of blood against skin muffles those strange sounds of normalcy, the elevator _bing_! the intercom's squawk, the steady hum of chatter in the corridor.

"Excuse me."

_Go away, _she wants to say. _Get...out! _But she doesn't. Instead she raises her head and sees a balding, dapper man clad in a five hundred dollar suit standing by the door. Under one arm he carries what looks like a file folder. His gaze meets hers in a concerned, somewhat conspiratorial way, like he knows what is happening, as if he already has the problem in hand. For some unfathomable reason his presence brings her a great sense of relief.

Pulling her shoulders back, she swipes an errant tress of hair from her cheek. "Yes. I'm sorry. Can I help you?"

He remains where he is, his head tilting a millimeter to the left, as if he is considering the correct response from a field of hundreds.

Cuddy tries again. "Is there something-"

One step, two steps forward. He extends a hand, let's a smile fill his nondescript features. Although, really, he is not bad looking. Nice eyes...warm. There is a depth to them.

"I'm Doctor William Faulkner." He leans forward so their fingertips touch. Suddenly she feels as if her veins are packed with cement. She is immobilized, rooted to the spot.. His hand slides into hers. Their palms meet, fingers entwine in warm greeting. "You are...Dr. Cuddy."

Her head bobs...many times, as if he has let her in on a piece of earth shattering news. Their hands are still clasped and it takes all her will to remove hers from his not unpleasant grip.

"I need to apologize for not returning your voicemails, Dr. Cuddy."

His hand makes a home on the back of the chair by the desk. Her eyes follow the flowing motion of his fingers as they travel the length of that ribbon of smooth blond wood.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

"Hmm, yes, I'm sorry." She exhales. Closing her eyes, she rubs two fingers against her brow. _Annnnd..._ _reboot...restart._

"It's been a difficult few days, I know." He opens his hand, palm up, indicating the chair. "May I?"

"Ah, yes, of course."

He sits, then hitches the chair closer to the desk. The file folder rests on his lap beneath those warm, smooth palms.

"I wanted to tie up some loose ends before getting in touch with you," he says.

"Of course."

"Some of my patients still depend on my services, even though I am officially 'retired'." A corner of one lip tics up as he shakes his head. "They're like children. You can't ever truly leave them behind."

She opens her mouth to add another 'of course', but thinks better of it.

"But...onto the matter at hand. I'm sure you have questions."

A thousand thoughts trudge through her head like storm troopers. She should call Wilson, maybe Gurand too. Dr. Faulkner's eyes are on her. His scrutiny is filled with concern, compassion and...knowing. He knows what's in her heart, perhaps knows what her next words will be...

"Books," she blurts out, and is immediately sorry she did. She should wait for Wilson. They should question him together. "Faulkner novels," she continues. Logic be damned. She wants to know,_has_ to know. Pawing through her middle drawer, she comes up with the photo and pushes it at him with a shaky hand. "He wanted to tell us about you, but it seemed this was the only way he could. Dr. House will always find a way. Why would he do that, Doctor?" Her words spray through the room like _ratatatat_ machine gun fire.

Lifting a brow, Faulkner crosses his legs as he sits back in the chair. He taps one finger against the armrest as he holds the photo up to the light. He seems unperturbed, unsurprised.

"A delusional person always has their reasons, Dr. Cuddy," he says. "however twisted they may be."

"Delusional?"

The alien planet shifts off its axis, careening out of orbit, sending her freefalling into deep space.

"Why don't you get Dr. Wilson in here?" He tucks the photo into the file folder, then sets the folder on the edge of her desk. "I know he'll want to hear this too."


	24. Dreams and Schemes

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, everyone. Hope you had a great New Year's.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her help and encouragement.

**-25-**

"Dreams and Schemes"

_...very good, Greg._

_He sits in the back of the classroom, ignoring the venomous looks of the other kids. He can't help it if he always gets the answer right. Can't help it if he knows the curriculum before the year even gets underway._

_...a blessing and a curse._

_a curse. A curse._

_Something doesn't feel right. It's like his heart has traded place with his lungs, his kidneys with his spleen. He has been wired wrong. A differential diagnosis is in order._

_They ogle him like he is some kind of freak living under the bright red and yellow tent of a traveling circus show. He never told them about the curse. But they know. Hard to miss when it is emblazoned across the chalkboard in day-glo red._

Greg House is C U R S E D

_...which brings us to the subject of dreams..._

_Someone in the front of the room titters, starting up a wave of laughter. Not even Teacher can resist. She covers her mouth with a hairy liver spotted hand and lets loose a hoot._

_He has to pee._

_What do you dream of, Greg?_

_Wide-eyed, they stare at him as one. Those saucer eyes blink in unison, waiting. He returns their stares, horrified. He has done something wrong. He has been bad. His faulty wiring burns and gurgles._

_What do you dream?_

_A hand falls on his shoulder, warm fingers give a little squeeze, causing him to turn to see..._

Bill.

_It is difficult to articulate the emotion. It has pulled all the breath from him; such elation is almost impossible to endure._

Help me.

_With the delicious deliberation of a conjurer, Bill reaches into his jacket and pulls out the jewel encrusted sword. Its blade makes atinging sound as it spits out blue sparks, its jewels glimmer as they go round and round. Slick. The sword seems larger than House remembers, its blade stretching all the way to the ceiling._

_Dizzy with anticipation and delight, he extends a hand toward the relic. His heart races. The pound, pound, pounding of the weary muscle is loud, deafening. A bad thing. Teacher is displeased. She places one black talon over her blood streaked lips and emits a long, somber hisssssssss._

_...dreams are hopes and wishes...dreams bring us what we can only imagine possessing...dreams help us work out those stickety wickets that stymie our progress in life..._

_A tear rolls down his cheek as one hand closes around the cool metal of the hilt. But Bill isn't giving up his prize so fast. _

_Wanna see something cool?_

_Rib bone's connected to the thigh bone, thigh bone's connected to the...shoulder bone..._

_Surely, Doctor, that can't be right._

_He doesn't know. He's not sure anymore...of anything. But Bill is here, his hand warm and assured on top of his, leading him, guiding him._

_Watch and learn, Greg._

_Together they work to push the blade through Greg's chest. Now the metal is immersed so deep House feels the its tip spear his spinal column._

_Happy now? he rasps, falling forward, his blood spilling hot over those flailing, dancing kids. Like a river swelling, the blood rages higher still to saturate Bill's tan shirt. But Bill seems unperturbed. He spreads out his arms, grinning like a child, his teeth stained scarlet. His laughter skims lightly over the waves, as he goes under. _

_My, my. Just like that he is gone, gone, goodbye and you will never...never see him again._

_sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry_

And-a-one, and-a-two-and-a-

The scream fills every inch of the room-from its expansive center to each of its four corners. The noise is round, clean, smooth and continuous, a single note of terror taking up residence...

_right here on our show..._

The effort of pushing out sound makes his jaw ache, leaving him spent, breathless...and in pain.

He has fallen off the bed, gulping in air, moving his hand up and down his throbbing thigh, willing the trip hammer beat of his heart to slow. Something warm trickles down his leg and he realizes too late he has pissed himself. Fortunately he is alone. No one is here to give him a distressed, sorrowful look, no one to let out a piteous, aggrieved sigh. That will come later, he is sure.

Where is the woman? He grips the side of the bed, then thinks better of it and clutches his head with both hands. What is her name? He can't remember. _Lois. _His mouth sounds it out for him. Yes. The tension in his chest eases.

Someone is at the door, rattling a key in the lock, pushing it open.

_don't hurt him don't hurt him_

Flanked by the most macho, thick necked goonies of the flock, The Guy approacheth. Yes, it's The Guy, the head honcho, the major player, the Big Kahuna.

Whassisname?

_Stefan._

Thanks for playing. That is correct.

Stefan is wearing his jammies. Well, they look like jammies. He's got the satiny gold robe type thing flowing over the loose fitting silvery trousers.

_Such a gurrrrl._

Oh, and he is not a happy camper. Maybe Mom forgot to pack a Twinkie with his lunch. His arms are folded across his scrawny chest, his grey-blue eyes burn like smoldering ash.

"Is there a problem, Greg?"

House winces and lifts a bandaged hand to scratch his head, coming away with half an inch of grit under his fingernail. When was the last time soap and hot water made the acquaintance of his skin?

"Guess so."

"It seems you've been having a problem assimilating yourself into the church."

"Well, you know, my thought processes aren't what they used to be." He squirms and reaches to rub his butt. The dampness of the cooling urine is making him itch in all the wrong places. "But I don't think I asked to be part of your 'church'."

"To be brought into the Church of the Rising Age is an honor. Lois found you worthy and let nature take its course."

House shrugs, rolls his shoulders and winces again. His neck is bruised from that damned sleeper hold. "Kidnapping equals the natural order of things? I never knew that."

The posse shifts restlessly. These guys really are big. Maybe Big Kahuna shoots them with steroids while they sleep. House fully expects one of them to pull out the brass knuckles and give them a good _thwap_ against his meaty palm.

"I told her to make you useful or get rid of you."

"Such a Humanitarian you are." A slant of sunlight falls over House's trouser leg. There must be a window. Over there behind the bed...he hadn't noticed it before.

"But I'm nothing if not compassionate."

The sun is high. It must be noon or somewhere thereabouts.

_But it is not the sun you want_, _is it, old man?_

No. His stomach clenches. Not the sun.

"I will give you another chance."

He claws the edge of the bed, then pushes with his good leg to give himself leverage.

"You need to be immersed in The Contemplation to comprehend the privilege that has been bestowed on you."

Dragging himself across the sea of blankets, sheets and pillows, he makes it to the window, presses his nose to the cool glass. His fingers wrap around the edge of the sill as his eyes search the sky for just a sliver, just a hint.

"He has soiled himself, Stefan."

"Yes, child, indeed. He is unclean."

"Shall we help him find the way?"

And then he sees it. The hint, that sliver of moon resting in the summer sky.

_Bill._

A soft sigh takes up residence left vacant by the scream. Stefan is unhappy. Stefan is displeased.

"Maybe we should let him go, Stefan."

"That decision rests with Lois."

"But you said-"

"Do_not_ question my judgment."

He wishes they would take their bickering outside so he could watch the moon in peace.

"I am sorry, Stefan."

"Clean him up. I want him scrubbed down good before Lois returns."

When he is grabbed, he fights back hard,

(_he is a strong man_)

kicking with his left leg, getting in a good right jab across Meaty Bone's jaw. It wouldn't have been so bad. He might have gone with them quietly if Bill hadn't been preparing to tell him something. That sliver of moon was going to impart some vital piece of news.

_Ain't gonna happen now._

They're restraining him, gripping him by his arms and around his torso as a sad-eyed Big Kahuna jabs three fingers into a pressure point just below his jaw.

After that he is...just...putty...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They moved the festivities to the conference room and, through no fault of his own, Wilson is going to be tardy to the party. He rushes down the corridor. Cuddy caught him in the middle of a consult with a patient; her voice on the phone quavered like a condemned man after his last meal.

Wilson would have arrived sooner but informing Mr. Greenward of the inoperable tumor on his left lung seemed more of a priority. Wilson was a doctor, after all, still the head of Oncology last time he checked. Mr. Greenward needed his expertise, his advice, his care.

_And House?_

Right now, Wilson isn't sure what House (wherever the hell he is) might need.

Perhaps one of the learned gentlemen in the conference room could clue Wilson in to the savage secrets of the mind. What made House run? What made him decide to become incommunicado, to eat only diner hamburgers, to leave a cry for help in the form of a stockpile of William Faulkner novels on his sofa.

Wilson rushes into the room, breathless, disheveled. "Sorry I'm late."

Cuddy sits at the head of the long table. She manages a small smile, raising one hand in greeting.

A balding, well dressed man is seated to her right. He looks up from his paperwork and turns to offer Wilson his hand. "Dr. Wilson, I'm William Faulkner. It's good to finally meet you."

Faulkner's grip is sturdy and warm. His lips curl into a half smile as his eyes search Wilson's. Taking one small step back, Wilson rubs his fingers together as if to rid them of some slick, oily residue. Something about those eyes digs too deeply, seeing the sins, the regrets, the afterthoughts. They chill him, making him want to leave the room, but he shifts his attention to Cuddy instead.

"Dr. Gurand is going to sit in with us." Cuddy waves a hand, indicating the white haired figure standing motionless in the corner. Gurand's hands rest deep inside his lab coat pockets, his expression is flat but his grey eyes are alive, moving slowly over the trio at the table. Those mental gears are turning, ticking like a well-oiled clock, as he silently works to assimilate data, to analyze the situation.

"Won't you...take a seat, Doctor?"

"I'm fine here, thank you, Dr. Cuddy." He strokes his beard. "Now that Dr. Wilson has joined us, maybe Dr. Faulkner can give us a quick overview of his findings.

Wilson sits beside Cuddy and folds his hands on the table.

"Certainly." Faulkner says, giving him a curt nod. "Dr. House originally sought my services to help him manage his debilitating leg pain. He told me he wanted to cut back on his Vicodin use, that he was concerned about the havoc his self medication might be wreaking on his liver and general health.

"All of a sudden?" Gurand says.

"I'm sorry?" Faulkner's lip gives an irritable twitch, which quickly morphs into a tolerant smirk.

"I mean, Dr. House was always aware of the possible consequences of the habit. But he was never overly concerned about his own health issues."

"He did his research, read about my achievements in the field of pain management," Faulkner's words are clipped and concise. "My track record intrigued him."

"I see. Well, then, please...go on." Gurand nods, almost bowing in deference, which gets Wilson wondering if the gesture is on the level or Gurand is simply being facetious. All bets are on the latter.

"He is a quick study," Faulkner continues. "We were making excellent progress with the relaxation techniques I was teaching him."

"You were utilizing visualization, Dr. Faulkner?"

"Exactly."

"And this was effective?"

"He was progressing nicely."

"Hypnosis?"

"Doctor?"

"Was hypnotherapy part of your course of treatment?"

"There was no need to go that route, Dr. Gurand."

"I see."

"Dr. Gurand," Cuddy favors him with an impatient glare. "perhaps we can allow Dr. Faulkner to finish before playing Twenty Questions."

"This won't take long." Faulkner's mouth twitches a smile. "I promise."

"Thank you." Cuddy sits back, taps a pencil against House's face on the front page of _The Ledger_.

"As our sessions progressed, Greg House gradually became delusional. He seemed to think... he was cursed. He began to feel he could only eat certain types of food, and if he didn't dine at the same time and place every day, something terrible would happen. He became emotionally over-invested in me. To him I was Best Friend Bill, the only friend he wanted or needed."

Wilson turns toward Cuddy but she doesn't meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps her gaze glued to the file before her: that strange, almost implausible account of House's gradual decline.

"He also began to obsess over an antique sword I keep in a display case outside my office," Faulkner continues. "It intrigued him to the point where he felt it held some...power over him."

"And...why would he think that?" Wilson asks, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the table. House was never one to believe in ghosts, the supernatural or possessed relics. That sort of stuff served only to provide him with fodder for pranks and fuel for his barbs. Wilson raises his eyes to meet Faulkner's and frowns, ill prepared for the wave of annoyance that greets him.

"It's hard to say, Dr. Wilson." Faulkner takes a sip of water before going on. "Greg is, as you know, a troubled soul. This penchant for delusional behavior might have always lurked within his psyche. It was just a matter of time before it revealed itself."

Gurand snorts softly. "And it took working with you to coax it out into the light of day."

"Dr. Gurand, _please_." Cuddy spreads her hands like an entreaty, like a beleaguered teacher trying her best to keep the lesson on topic.

Faulkner bows his head, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, tapping his fingertips together, "I understand your concern, Doctor, your barely concealed notion that somehow my treatment caused Greg's problem and his eventual flight." He thins his lips as he meets Gurand's eyes. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

"I'd like to believe that, Dr. Faulkner, but I saw for myself how acutely his behavior changed just days after being under your care. In general, this sort of delusional behavior takes somewhat longer to manifest."

"Ah, but you see, the delusional behavior is insidious. The victim can seem outwardly normal, tend to his tasks without revealing the obsess-"

"I don't want to talk to you," Wilson says.

They turn to him in silence, three pairs of eyes widening in owlish surprise.

"It's what he said when I tried to have a conversation with him." His gaze is distant as he rubs his cheek. "I don't want to talk to you. But then...he would...talk to me. A little. It's like he was trying so hard, you know?"

"Trying to do what?" Gurand pushes away from the wall. He takes three steps forward and leans both hands on the table. His gaze is intent, his voice gruff and low.

"Just...trying to be _him. _Trying so hard to hold on." Wilson shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm no psychiatrist. I'm just his friend."

Silence prevails. Cuddy closes the file like it is a fragile piece of filigree. She places _The Ledger _on top of it.

"I think you've helped quite a bit, Dr. Wilson. You've given us that much more insight into Dr. House's mindset prior to his disappearance." Gurand straightens, smoothes his lapels and tosses Faulkner a look. "Is there anything else we need to know, Doctor?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then I will be getting back to work." Gurand takes three long-legged strides to the door and pulls it open. "Thank you, gentlemen, Dr. Cuddy."

Through the glass, Wilson watches Gurand stroll down the long corridor and turn the corner.

"I need to apologize for Dr. Gurand's behavior today, Dr. Faulkner."

"No need." He meets Cuddy's gaze, gives her a genuinely warm smile, which causes her cheeks to burn scarlet...

...which piques Wilson's curiosity. It is rare to see Cuddy so flustered. Her reaction to the arrogant, moon-faced therapist is not at all like her. The way she defended him in front of Gurand...something wrong there. He couldn't ask her, she would only go on the defensive. So he slinks down in his chair. Perhaps she is just playing along, hopeful that Faulkner's familiarity with House's psyche will open a door, give them an upper hand, a clue to where House might have gone.

"Those books seemed like a cry for help, Dr. Faulkner," he blurts out.

"My, my." Faulkner raises his brows and chuckles. "For someone who is not a psychiatrist you are quite perceptive."

A terrible heat rides up Wilson's neck, fanning out to embrace his cheeks and ears. He folds his arms across his chest, noticing Faulkner's smirk as he does. Such an obvious defensive gesture. He is useless, hopeless. Maybe he should just leave.

"Don't fret, Dr. Wilson. I know it's difficult to have an outsider barge in and inform you of what you should already know." His smile never falters as he gets to his feet. "I need to return to my office. My 'children' await. Two appointments today. But before I leave, I need to ask an important favor."

"Of course," Cuddy says.

"If you find Greg, if you get some kind of lead and go charging off to save the day, please call me first."

"Why?" Wilson asks. "There's time enough to do your hoodoo when we bring him home."

"You might not be able to get him back here without my intervention." Faulkner is cagey, smooth, strolling around the room like he owns it. He runs one hand along the varnished edge of the table and ends his walk in front of Cuddy. "Wherever he is, he is not feeling secure, he is missing me, wondering about me, almost every waking thought is of me and our sessions."

Wilson raises a finger. "If that's the case-"

Switching round sharply on his heel, Faulkner fumes. "That _is_ the case, Dr. Wilson. I don't think it, I _know_ it, the same way I know how deep your concern and worry for him goes. I know you're beating yourself up."

"Where are you getting this?" Wilson shakes his head, incredulous.

"You think you're partially to blame for what happened to Greg." He regains his composure and cocks his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into a gentle smile. "One day he'll forgive you. One day. But right now I'm the one he needs. I'm the port in the storm, the warmth and security he craves."

"We'll call you, Doctor," Cuddy's voice is low, filled with a mix of reverence and agitation. "You'll be updated each time we are."

"You are a wise woman, Dr. Cuddy." He turns to her again and takes the hand she offers. It almost seems like he might place it against his lips. But he merely pats it once with his free hand before releasing it.

"You put ideas in people's heads." Wilson gets to his feet and jabs a finger at Faulkner. "You have that sickly, slimy way of making people second guess themselves. It almost worked on me." He inhales sharply, rapping his knuckles against the table. "Dr. Gurand wasn't taken in by your nonsense. But for some reason you've managed to get Dr. Cuddy in the palm of your hand."

"James!"

"Do what you want, Lisa. Listen to him. Let him worm his way inside your head." Wilson storms to the door. "I've got better things to do."

He pushes into the corridor and leans his head against the wall, wondering how he could have let his anger and pent up frustration get the better of him. Maybe he was wrong, perhaps _he_ was delusional. Perhaps the doctor was an okay guy.

He turns and catches sight of Faulkner through the glass, weaving some sort of sinister, sinuous spell over an enrapt Cuddy. He is making her laugh, making her believe in him, trust him. Her eyes are bright as starshine she listens, learns, follows along.

_Another fine mess, _Wilson thinks, traipsing down the hallway, unable to watch them anymore.

_Another fine, fucking mess, House._


	25. Angel On My Shoulder

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for her encouragement and help.

**-25-**

"Angel On My Shoulder"

Lois has a secret.

Nothing about it is sinful or shameful, at least not from her point of view. Still, she will never reveal to Stefan what she does on her walks.

_Yes, stepping out for some fresh air? Filling your head and heart with Verses? Wonderful idea, Lois. It can only do you good_.

How livid he would be if he knew the truth.

So off she goes, not to fill her heart with the wisdom of The Writ, but to educate herself, reorient herself with the normal everyday, to escape from the stressful demands of the church.

Each day she is surrounded by her flock-those needy, lost denizens of the streets. At one time she embraced their need, found solace and purpose in it. But lately, dealing with their skewed personalities is beginning to take a toll on whatever inner fortitude she still possesses. She is no psychologist. When she helped create this church, she set out to enlighten, which is something she hasn't done for a long, long time.

Those with emotional issues, like Greg, require more from her, more energy, more time, more nurturing. The truth is (and this is a huge part of the secret) sometimes she is repulsed by their needs, their vulnerability, their willingness to hear and obey Stefan's edicts. She is beginning to detest being in their presence. After months of being in denial, she is owning up to that fact. Not a great feeling. But at least it's the truth. Sometimes all she wants is a book, a cup of coffee, a Marlboro Light. Just...a block of time with her name on it.

The Writ does not challenge her yearning for private time. Solitary pursuits such as meditating or silently reciting the Verses are encouraged. But her walks, her hour long _escapes, _have nothing to do with the church. These walks are like little excursions into what the Rising Age would consider the darkest corner of hell.

She takes her time on her outings, stopping at Pascal's for an espresso and to read the papers. The espresso is a stimulant and off limits, newspapers are bad, rotten, evil. Taboo. So call her a sinner. At this point she doesn't really care. She is...hellbound.

Twisting Stefan's Verses to cover a multitude of sins is easy. '_Do for the others when your heart and mind are healthy and clear'_ can be taken in a variety of ways. Must the hierarchy always be pure in thought and deed? Sure, if you want to take the words at face value. But Lois has become quite the expert at molding Stefan's writings into ideas that please her, like a potter who labors over his vases and urns. The clay starts out soft and pliant and shapeless on the wheel, but under the artist's hand, a functional, attractive piece of earthenware is born. Lois _uses_ Stefan's words. She molds them, tweaks them and makes them work for her.

Many moons ago, life was different. There was hope...and enlightenment. But as the old song says 'it's all over now'. She has become the dregs at the bottom of the cup. The notion of enlightenment is as faded and grey as her hair. But no sense brooding over her lot. Life is what it is.

Regardless, she couldn't have asked for a more beautiful afternoon to enjoy her escape. The sky is a cloudless cerulean, the warm breeze a delight, playing with her hair, caressing her cheeks. A faded sliver of moon lazes contentedly overhead. And since it is Monday, she doesn't have to fight the weekend wanderers or wonder if Pascal's will have an empty booth.

So she continues on her way, strolling past playgrounds and upscale cafes and young women pushing strollers and old couples walking dogs. It is all beauty and simplicity, life as it was meant to be. But soon a strange darkness descends, like storm clouds crowding the horizon; this is where the first sins will come into play. Here is where she veers away from innocent observations, as if the devil is on her shoulder, urging her on...

...to do wrong.

It is a sin to stand before the newsstand. It is outright sacrilege to survey this vast collection of newspapers and glossy magazines. Stefan is the sole church member permitted to read the dailies. His copy of the _New York Times_ arrives at the door every morning. Wrapped in plastic, it is off limits. To touch it, to lay one finger on it would put you in Contemplation for two days. Not that anyone in the church would bother with the thing. The only news they need is the 'good news' brayed by Stefan in his sermons every evening.

Lois feels no guilt. This is what she does, this is what makes her feel alive, exuberant and free. Choosing reading material for her hour in Pascal's makes her feel giddy and deliciously wicked, like a schoolgirl with math test answers tucked up her sleeve.

As usual, she can't decide. But the news seller is patient. He is a smiling, burly man with a blond crew cut and a lazy eye that is perennially crossed. She likes him. He shares her secret and doesn't know it.

He greets her with a hello and a wheeze, and she nods, her gaze continuing to traverse the landscape.

_Vanity Fair, GQ, Redbook, Good Housekeeping, Conde Nast..._

Whatever she buys she will be forced to leave behind, which is a shame. There are times she would love to stash a few clippings away: interesting articles about people she will never meet or places in the world she will never see.

_One more look, _she promises herself, loath to stop the game. Starting at the far left, her eyes slowly graze the printed terrain. Later she will wonder how she almost missed it, how she nearly passed on the periodical that would seal her future.

Fate plays its hand, even for sinners

_Disappearing Doc! _The headline lunges at her, screams at her, its whine so high, it hurts her ears. _Oh, but it's not the paper making that noise, silly_, she chides herself as her mouth goes dry. It is a passing police car, its siren blaring as it chases a sinner stupid enough to get caught. One shaky hand scrabbles in the pocket of her tunic for her money.

_Disappearing Doc!_

The friendly news seller hands her _The Ledger, _happily accepts her dollar, gives her a quick farewell nod, unaware he has been the conductor on her merry junket to hell.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The officer manning the hotline has logged fifty-seven calls over the last two hours. Most were from denizens of the _Non Compos Mentis_Home For the Hopeless, but there were a couple of leads the cop thought might be worth following up.

A copy of his report sits on the right side of Wilson's desk, _The Ledger _rests by his left hand. House's drunken, 'feel no pain' look disturbs him but he has no intention of stowing the paper away._Disappearing Doc! _ The headline is like a stick jabbing his side, which is good. He needs to feel that sense of urgency, and remember that time is mercurial, slipping away with each breath he takes.

He is alone. He has never been more alone.

Faulkner, it seems, is going to be more trouble in more ways than Wilson had at first suspected. After informing his 'children' that their appointments would need to be postponed until tomorrow, Faulkner freed up his afternoon...

_How wonderfully convenient._

...to take Cuddy to lunch. After that, he planned to deliver a copy of House's file to the police and give them a statement, with Cuddy along for the ride.

_Surely he's a big boy. You would think he could manage these things on his own._

Wilson was in the middle of a consult when Cuddy called to inform him of her plans. The eager anticipation in her voice made his stomach turn. But he was good at covering up, pushing his emotions to some far off corner of his world. He strained to turn a grimace into a thin smile. He needed to prioritize. The weary, grief stricken mother of a three year old leukemia victim didn't need an oncologist with issues. A kid battling for her life trumped a sad, lost diagnostician. At least for the moment.

Cuddy's voice trembled ever so slightly in his ear, like chills were riding down her arms at the thought of spending time with the therapist.

She is a strong woman, a hospital administrator, not a fool by any means. Why would she be taken in by a man with a chip on his shoulder the size of Princeton?

That slimy, _unctuous _feeling just won't go away. It's like some slithery _thing_ is gradually creeping up Wilson's inseam. Faulkner. God, there is a terrible underhanded... _something _about him. Wilson can't put his finger on it. It's like the guy's got the world by the balls. That little smirk, that knowing hitch of a brow. He's having the best time-at someone's expense. Wilson can't help suspect the first _someone_ was House. Now it's Cuddy's turn.

A dot of perspiration tickles Wilson's temple. Perhaps he is making too much of this. Maybe the guy's on the level but has an attitude problem. No, Gurand thinks Faulkner is trouble too. But Gurand is busy. He will help sort this out when he can. But he is busy: a fact he mentioned to Wilson three times after Wilson informed him of this new wrinkle.

No one seems overly concerned. _Life goes on._ House's team has decided Foreman will be at the helm for the interim. _Life goes on._ House's disappearance is gradually becoming accepted. But...hell, the guy is missing. He hasn't stepped out for a soda. He is gone. Granted it hasn't been that long. But still...

_(Obla di obla da)_

...life goes on.

It doesn't make sense.

He doesn't recall picking up _The Ledger_ but there it is in his hands. Gripping it at arm's length, he stares at the black and white photo on the front page. The longer he looks at it, the more the image seems not so much a photo as a mosaic comprised of tiny black and grey dots. The components band together, artfully constructing a likeness of House's with his bow tie undone, the tip of his cigar dripping ash.

"What is Faulkner hiding?" Wilson asks his friend in a hushed tone. Bowing his head, his voice cracks like the rotting wood of an old tree limb. "Tell me what's going on so I can make...things...right."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They know her in Pascal's, but they are not aware of her secret, her sin. This makes her glad, especially today.

_Easy, girl. _Why is she clenching the rolled up_ Ledger_ so tightly? The way she tromps down the aisle, her head whipping this way and that, she must look like some irate pet owner on her way to_whap_ Fido on the butt. She gets an itchy feeling on the back of her neck. Are all eyes are on her? Does everybody know?

Actually, no one cares about her or her sins. She takes a surreptitious look around. No one meets her gaze. A sigh of relief escapes her. Michele, the buxom beauty of a waitress is on the opposite side of the room, flirting with a tousled haired guy wearing an army jacket and worn mud colored cords. The owner, Jean Pascal is manning the cash register, chattering away in French on his cell.

No. No one cares about the old lady clad in the red and white church garb, seating herself in the booth way in the back. She spreads _The Ledger _out before her, nips her lower lip with her top teeth as she studies the photo on the front page.

_Disappearing Doc!_

Pascal himself brings her the usual: espresso and cheesecake slice (another sinful notch in the belt), apologizing for the Michele, who is still immersed in her flirtatious banter. Lois offers Pascal an absent grin. After assuring him it's perfectly alright, she goes back to her reading, leaving the coffee and cake to the side.

The coffee will remain untouched and eventually be poured down the sink in the back, while Pascal will serve up the dessert to the next customer who orders it. No sense wasting an excellent slice of cheesecake.

The article is two full pages, a sensational piece of tripe. But Lois drinks it all in, learning more about Greg this way than she ever would by talking to him.

He is a respected diagnostician, world renown, in fact. His ability to solve cases that have other doctors scratching their heads has put him much in demand. But he is not a people person. Some of his patients never even meet him if his team can handle the case, others are sorry when they do. He is caustic, possesses a biting wit and has no qualms about verbally abusing just about anyone. She reads on about the infarction in his thigh that crippled him, his subsequent addiction to Vicodin, being brought up as a military brat with no sense of permanence until he was well into his teenage years.

There is a telling sidebar, an interview with James Wilson, head of Oncology. He is Greg's friend, his only true friend, if what the article says can be believed. This must be the 'Wilson' Greg mentioned, the name that came into play instead of 'Bill'. She surmised Bill was Greg's loyal, true, stalwart buddy. But there is no mention in the article of anyone by that name.

Interesting.

Then there is the chilling photo of Greg's living room taken shortly after his disappearance. Books are set up on the sofa, sitting in anticipation, like guests at a Super Bowl party. According to the article they are novels by William Faulkner. What could it mean? Could this long dead author be the "Bill" Greg obsesses over?

She reaches the last paragraph of the article, then stops, unsure if she read it right. The print is tiny and her eyes are weak. So she reads it again...and again. The cheap newsprint leaps off the page at her, letters dancing and jiving in jubilant celebration.

Lois once heard that God has a plan. She never truly believed it until now.

She reads the paragraph again. A reward is being offered for information leading to the safe return of Dr. Gregory House. Twenty-thousand dollars.

Tears spring to Lois's tired eyes. She thinks of the life in Vermont she might have had. The store she would have opened. She even had a name for it: _Angel On My Shoulder. _The shelves would be filled with crystals, rolled up yoga mats, books on the I-Ching and astral traveling, so much more...

Twenty-thousand dollars.

Her hands clench, release, clench, release.

_"Thank you," _she breathes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm sorry."

Allison sits comfortably ensconced in the easy chair by the window, her bare feet stretched out on the ottoman before her. Joe lays on the bed, attempting to read "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold" but his eyes keep drifting closed.

It has been a long day.

"Did you hear me?"

The kids are having a wonderful time playing Rainbow News on the bed where Ariel and Bridget sleep. Newspapers are scattered on the floor and the comforter as the girls chatter, read, cut and paste. The object of the game is to seek out only the good news and form a rainbow of those clippings on sheets of construction paper. The game, which was Joe's creation, has become a favorite of the girls, keeping them busy and non-argumentative for as long as the good news lasts.

After the awards ceremony, some sightseeing and an early dinner at _La Mella _(where Bridget had her spaghetti), Joe purchased a copy of every daily and weekly from the hotel newsstand. The girls were tired but their sense of excitement was still evident, shivering like live wires dangling from a telephone pole. The game would help to keep them out of each other's hair, while giving them something productive to do.

"Why won't you answer me?"

Allison narrows her eyes and peers at Dead Kid. He is hunkered down next to her, his green eyes mournful, as though he has lost something precious.

"You need to calm down." She keeps her voice soft and motherly, like she is gently berating one of her own. "Stop yelling at me. I can hear and understand. You don't need to get all panic stricken."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiles, glancing over at Joe who has given up the good fight and is now snoring as loud as a buzz saw.

At Arts and Crafts Central, Bridget glances over her shoulder and giggles. Alexandra is here, seated cross-legged behind the trio of cutters and pasters, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and pointing excitedly at the growing rainbow.

"So...what can I do for you?" Allison asks Dead Kid.

"I just came to say hello."

A slow smile forms on her lips. "No, you didn't."

"No. I didn't." His look is anxious, eager, like he is busting to reveal something but knows he must take his time.

"Then tell me." Allison places one hand on his forearm, which is surprisingly warm.

"Umm, I think there's something you're missing."

"Okay." She bites. "And what's that?"

Something sparks in his eyes, anger pulses behind the green. He is trying so hard to be good.

_Hurryhurryhurry_! The words hiss in her head like the susurrations of wind through a dark forest.

"Slow. Calm...down," she tells him evenly.

"They haven't gotten to it yet, _lucky for you_."

"Ah, ah!" Allison waves a derisive finger. "Be nice."

"Sorry."

"What is it they haven't gotten to yet?"

"The_paper_."

Allison notices the tremor in his pale hands. He is trying so hard.

"Which one?"

"The one I kicked under the bed."

"Okay." She swings her feet off the ottoman and makes her way toward the arts and crafts activity hub.

"Hi, Mom!" shouts Bridget.

"Hi, Mom!" echoes Alexandra.

"Having fun, guys?" A corner of a newspaper sticks out from under the bed. Allison stares at it for one long moment before bending over to claim it.

"Ooh, that one's next." Ariel calls, waving a frenzied finger at the newly discovered paper in her mother's hand.

"Sorry, Ariel. This one's mine...for now," Allison returns to her chair, her prize folded safely under her arm. She reclines luxuriantly.

"Look at it," Dead Kid pleads. His brow creases; he is straining at the bit.

Allison can't seem to shake his gaze. Well, maybe she doesn't really want to. With some hesitation, she pulls the paper open to the center page without looking at it. Now is when she should be fixing her eyes on the print, to see what there is to see. But something holds her back. She is fearful to even speculate about what the kid deems so vitally important.

Dead Kid takes one step forward, then stops short. "Front page."

"Front...page?" she parrots, as if in a daze.

Suddenly there is a clamor of motion, of small feet thump, thump, thumping across the floor, closing in.

"Mom!"

Absently, one hand travels to stroke the child's unruly hair. "What, Bridget?" She still can't get her eyes to move those few inches...

Bridget shakes the police sketch close to her mother's ear.

"Bridge!" The frantic rustling causes Allison to wince and rear back as if in pain. It is loud enough to go head to head with Joe's snoring.

"Mom!" Two pudgy hands grip the sketch, which is as wrinkled as an octogenarian's neckline. Two of its edges are frayed, like a mouse made a midnight snack of it. Was it tossed about, cha-cha'd on, thrown into the clothes dryer with the towels, used to wipe a mirror clean? No, it has just spent a good amount of quality time in Bridget's polka-dotted handbag. And _that_ was explanation enough for its condition.

"Honey, I thought you guys were-"

Bridget jiggles a little in place, like she does when she has to pee. "It's him."

"Yes." Allison waves a dismissive hand. Suddenly she is very tired. "The police sketch."

"Will you please _look_?" Two voices plead with her in unison.

So...begrudgingly, she gives in, aware this will be the end of family time for the rest of the week. No more sightseeing, Joe will have to take the kids on that leisurely walk through Central Park by himself. _Madame Tussad's, _ _The Museum of Natural History? _Those excursions will be left to Joe.

She gives a resigned look, first to Dead Kid, then to Bridget before letting the paper fall closed. Drawing a sharp breath, she steels herself before looking down...

...already knowing what she will see.


	26. Getting To Know You

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for all her encouragement and help.

**-26-**

"Getting To Know You"

It's been too long since Cuddy has been wined and dined. Too long since she's been treated with this level of respect, especially by a man of such class, intelligence and importance.

The day was eventful, productive. After a wonderful lunch at _Le Jardin Rose _ (Bill ordered off the menu for them both, those French culinary delights tripping off his tongue with impressive ease), he told her how much he appreciated her accompanying him to the police. Her presence would give him credibility when he surrendered House's file. They would surely have questions and it would be lovely having her beside him to lend moral support.

She told him she had no reason to deny his request. They were both on the same side, after all, working for a common cause: to find House and get him home. A touch of fate's hand brought them together as allies. It was good. It felt right.

_What would House think?_

In the bathroom mirror, her hand freezes, forefinger and thumb trembling slightly as they hold the mascara brush inches from her lashes.

He would laugh at her for romanticizing a simple alliance, probably call her a fool. Was she romanticizing this bond? First there was lunch and now she was off on a dinner date. But it wasn't a date, was it?

She blinks a few times in rapid succession and exhales softly, deciding her lashes are as full and lush as they are going to get. After jabbing the brush back into its holder, she scrabbles through her makeup case for an appropriate lipstick. Merlot is the shade she chooses. _No, it's not a date,_ she thinks, running the rich wine hue across her top and bottom lips. This _meeting _will give her and Bill an additional chance to pool their ideas on how best to proceed with the problem at hand. Tonight she won't have to worry about rushing back to work the way she did this afternoon. With more time to talk, to run down the various options open to them, they will be relaxed and freer to brainstorm. They haven't called the FBI or gone the TV route. These are possibilities they will need to explore.

She gives a final scrutiny to her look in the mirror, which turns out to be an invitation for guilt to join the party. It settles on her shoulder, offering her a wink and a hearty hey-ho! _Really now_. Her eyes are too bright for someone who is supposed to be an emotional wreck. Well, she is troubled. Troubled, upset, heartsick. For the past few weeks her stomach has been in a twist. She worried about House constantly, with no one to help bear the brunt.

She thought she could depend on Wilson, but if Lisa Cuddy was a car wreck, James Wilson was an airplane crash.

Bill helped her figure that one out.

Somewhere along the way she must have done something right. Why else would Bill have appeared when he did? He is strong, someone she can depend on, someone with confidence and insight. With Bill she feels at ease. He knows what to say to make her laugh, regaling her with stories of some of his more 'interesting' patients. His assurance that House will be found and those delusions _will_ be remedied, gives her hope.

Wilson, as expected, put a damper on this newfound optimism.

"So he's _Bill_ now," The statement was as sharp and toxic as a poison arrow. "It didn't take long for him to become _your_ best friend too."

She told him he wasn't being fair.

He told her allying herself with an oily shyster like Faulkner proved she didn't have House's best interests in mind.

She assured Wilson he had no idea what he was talking about..

...which was the end of the altercation. Wilson stomped out of her office in a huff.

As she watched him leave, that twist in her gut took the opportunity to make a return engagement. It didn't last. After a few moments, it left the premises, knowing when it was beat.

Bill was on her side now. House was going to be fine. All they had to do...was find him.

Pressing a tissue to her lips, she blotted the color and gave herself one more serious scrutiny, deciding not to begrudge herself the sparkle in her eyes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_His skin hums. Hums and thrums and sings and...aches. Strangely, the ache is delicious, conjuring up thoughts of being lost on a sensual expedition. His surroundings are liquid, undulating, dark, deep, emerald green, like the center of a murky alien jewel. _

_The moon is hardly recognizable: a cloud-like circle of green mist high above his head. But it is there. And that's important..._

_His skin hums. The universe sings harmony. He knows this, he has the skivvy, the inside information. But the question is, does the sound truly emanate from his skin or is the hum inside his head? Does he surround it, or it he? Seeking reality is pretty damn daunting. _

_Too many questions. His mind is always going, always generating a challenge. _

_Easy now. It's all good. Good boy. Familiarity and comfort are this close. He can sense them waiting just beyond the wall, writhing and teasing like strippers at a bar. Here...over here. Put a dollar in the g-string. Get a lap dance for the lad. The voice is familiar, the voice of a friend. It is like swimming, long strokes, powerful thrusts. But it brings him no closer to his destination. He can't seem to make headway. Exhaustion causes his limbs to ache._

_His skin hums._

_Over there. Where? There. Bill is behind his desk: the desk with the yellow flowers and the knives lined up at the edge. The knives are ready, waiting like soldiers and anxious for orders. He wants to go there, to touch the blades, to hear Bill's voice inside his head. Like it used to be. The knives shimmer. Best friend. Over there, the vacant blue recliner waits._

_(for you)_

_But he can't get there, can't reach. Every stroke pulls him further back, further away from the only person who matters._

_He draws one long, tremulous breath and lets out a wail. _

_His skin hums._

_HmmmmMMMMmmmm..._

_Quiet...quiet...shhhhhh..._

_He likes the sound of that. Soothing. Nice. A hand rests against his brow. The touch is warm. A soft, pillow-thick palm smoothes his hair, massages his temple. Skin smells like...orchids._

_Gently._

_His...skin...hums, lulling him to sleep._

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Careful. It is the tenet she must live by for however long her plan takes to pan out. As anxious as she is, as antsy and relieved and euphoric, as...grateful, she must not push the envelope. Tempting fate would be the worst thing she could do. It has, after all, given her a gift; she is in no position to ask for more.

When she returned from her walk, she kept her face stoic as she asked Stefan about her charge. Stefan seemed in a volatile mood, snapping at her to go take a look at the 'unclean mess' for herself.

She knew then shouldn't have left Greg. But if she hadn't, she wouldn't have found the prize at the bottom of the proverbial Cracker Jack box.

Like Yin and Yang, the bad lithely tango with the good.

She strode past the faithful, tromped up the stairs, then down the hall. The Neural Noise Synthesizer was hard at work. She heard its sinister hum through the bedroom door.

Her throat constricted as she stared at that door, as the whorls embedded in the wood came to life, spinning like pinwheels before her. With some difficulty, she tore her eyes away, thinking she might not be as immune to the dastardly power of that hum as she thought.

_Slow...easy...slow._

The pinwheel spin gradually slowed...then stopped.

Her hands trembled. Fear gave her an enthusiastic squeeze, nearly crushing her. She pictured Greg in a terrible state: crazed, wide-eyed and _gone_.

_Quickly now._

She fumbled with her keys, dropping them twice before coming up with the right one.

"_Greg,"_ she whispered, pushing open the door. "Greg?"

He was seated on the edge of the bed in the throes of...something. His head was thrown back, hips writhing, lips twitching as he murmured, moaned and let out a long, loud wail.

_Possessed...he's been possessed._

Then she noticed the small silver thermos at his feet, a trickle of pale brown liquid dripping from its lip, leaving its stain on the white carpet.

Passionflower...

_No_, she thought with some relief. He was not possessed, but he was most definitely _gone._

_HmmmmmMMMmmmm..._

"Greg?" She walked quickly to the far corner of the room and wrenched the Synthesizer's plug from the wall.

Silence reigned.

Still, he continued the rocking motion, embellishing it with a long stream of incoherent babble. The combined spells of the tainted soup and brain wave entrainment seemed not to have eased their grip.

"Quiet," Lois soothed. "Quiet...sssh." She placed one hand against his brow, which seemed to calm him. The rocking ceased; the unintelligible chatter quieted. She smoothed his damp hair, massaged his temples lightly, which caused a weak smile to cross his lips. His head dropped; his chin brushed his chest. It seemed he had fallen asleep.

For the first time she noticed how...red he was. The area of skin peeking from the sleeve above his wrist looked like it had been under a sunlamp too long. She lifted the back of his shirt and was aghast at the three long purplish scrapes embedded in the scarlet.

"He was unclean."

Lois jolted, then switched round on her heel to face Stefan.

"I don't remember asking you in here." Her voice was gruff, belying her despair.

"I go where I please in my domain."

"Not when I am involved in a meeting with a member of the flock."

"You call this a meeting?" Stefan approached the bed, grabbed Greg by his hair and pulled his head as far back as it would go. "Awaken and hear the word."

"Leave him be, Stefan," Lois said. Her tone was confident, assured, a tone she learned from him. "I'll take care of this."

Greg's eyes fluttered open as Stefan released him. "He needed to be cleansed. You wouldn't have done it."

"No, I certainly wouldn't have shoved him under near scalding water and sanded him down with a wire brush."

Yawning, Greg lifted his arms. He stretched, winced, then let his hands fall to his lap. For a moment, he seemed lost. His gaze wandered the four corners of the room, skimming lightly along the ceiling and the walls. Finally it found direction, landing first on Lois, then Stefan. "I don't want to talk to you," he croaked, before adding, "Bastard."

The tortured sound of that epithet made Lois's chest hitch. Images of the hell he had been through played in her head, her entrails icing over like a muddy field after a hailstorm. Still, she managed to maintain a sense of calm, forcing herself to face Stefan, thinking how best to divert his attention from her charge.

Stefan was smiling. When he smiled he was likeable, charming, angelic, like some gentle creature who lived off leaves and berries and bounded through rich grasslands.

_What a crock._

"Greg," He stepped forward, his smile never faltering as he placed a hand on Greg's arm. "The moon..."

Greg's shoulders slumped, his complexion going paste white. All the fight he managed to dredge up dissipated like morning fog. "Huh?"

"It's looking for you but it can't find you."

Greg's eyes grew huge as his mouth dropped open.

"Hurry. Go to the window. Quickly!"

Like an automaton, he obeyed, bearing his weight on his left leg, as he dragged himself across the bedding to look outside. He was like a child on Christmas Eve, searching the skies for Claus, gripping the sill, pressing his nose against the glass.

Rocking lightly on his heels, Stefan crossed his arms and hissed a quiet laugh.

Slowly, Lois turned to him, her fists clenched inside her tunic. "We will depart to begin the Contemplation tomorrow."

"What do you mean depart?" Stefan's elfish nose wrinkled as he sneered. "The Contemplation begins and ends in the church. And, in case you've forgotten, Lois, the church is here."

"Not this time," she said. "Greg needs to recoup his mental powers, which means he must have rest and solitude. Putting him through the Contemplation here will waste our time and his."

Stefan clasped his hands behind his back and walked in a circle, kicking the thermos in the process. "He already is a waste of time, Lois."

"The Contemplation will take place at the apartment."

"So you say." Stefan's look was incredulous. "That apartment is for my meditations and private time."

"The rent for that apartment is paid out of church funds. Your private usage of the space has nothing to do with church matters, and you know it."

"Bastard!" Greg shouted, eyes still glued to the sky.

Lois smirks, recalling how she shamed Stefan into doing her bidding, how his face turned as red as Greg's back as she harped on his pretty little strumpets. Begrudgingly, he gave in, but promised to pop in unannounced to check her progress when the mood suited him. She has doubts about that. He will be happy enough to be rid of both of them for awhile, and the chances of him cozying up to a pretty little strumpet in the interim is pretty slim.

She meets her own eyes in the mirror of her dresser, searching for guilt, the twinge of misgiving that should have shown itself by now.

Nothing.

It feels almost Zen-like staring at her image without regrets. How long has she been sitting here? It doesn't matter. Her door is locked. _The Ledger_ is spread open on the bed, the reward figure circled twice in blue ink.

_Soon_, she thinks, trying on a smile like it was a new coat.

Soon.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The blonde woman standing by Wilson's office door has that, 'I've got a pack of troubles' look. _Join the club, _he thinks, pausing at the elevator bank to give her a surreptitious scrutiny.

Her head is bowed. She grips the strap of her shoulder bag as tightly as a lifeline, tapping one foot against the tile as if keeping time with a grim march. She wears a grey suit, serviceable black shoes, signs she is probably a professional woman. So why is she here? Is she a patient? The Mom, wife, cousin, sister of a prospective patient? The notion that she could be a 'lawyer' slips in unbidden. It is not the choice he would prefer to go with, but it is a possibility.

Wilson rubs his hands together as he steps up to the plate, donning the best grin he can muster after only four hours sleep. He was in New York last night, wandering the streets of midtown, popping into any coffee shop/diner that looked like it might offer a decent burger.

At each eatery, he flashed House's photo to the wait staff, the busboys, the counter help. _Nope, sorry, never seen him in here,_ was the typical response. Although, one customer: a woman in her sixties, her thick reddish-grey hair swept back under a zebra striped headband, recognized House from _The Ledger. _She determined he was now the panhandler who played the accordion on 43rd and 5th. Sometimes he even brought his dancing monkey Coco with him. She called the hotline, reported her findings. Did anyone check it out? No. No one cared, did they? Did they?

Wilson thanked her, promised he would look into it and walked the five blocks to the designated spot to check out Zebra Lady's story. There he found a smiling old man, whose only resemblance to House was a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He played a fine rendition of "Lady Of Spain" on the squeezebox, and did indeed have a tiny monkey named Coco, who flailed and jumped atop an orange crate as the music played.

Another dead end. Wilson dropped a five into the guy's accordion case and walked back the way he came. A waste of time? Yeah, but he would not have been able to sleep at all that night if he hadn't checked out the story. Desperation can be the catalyst for some mighty odd behavior.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson." Wilson effects an air of nonchalance. Thrusting his hands in his lab coat pockets, he keeps that devil-may-care grin going strong. "Can I help you?" Tilting his head, he attempts to get a better look at the woman's face under her shock of blonde hair.

She raises her head, causing Wilson to take a stutter step back, the intensity in her eyes is startling. They are green, incandescent, as if particles of sunlight lurk behind each one. Strangest thing...

Offering her hand, she returns his grin. "I'm Allison Dubois."

"Ms. Dubois." He takes her hand and her grip is tighter than is generally considered de rigueur.

She draws in a long breath, then lets it out slow. "I know," she says.

"You know...what?"

"It's difficult when the ones you trust seem to have abandoned you."

"I'm...sorry...?" Something cold prickles along the back of his neck, as her gaze plummets deeper.

"You did the best you could, following him to the diner. But he was too far gone by then..."

"What are you...?"

"But your other friend, the one you thought was...with you all the way-"

Wilson flinches as if he's been struck. Ms. Allison Dubois' meanderings pack quite a wallop. His jaw drops. His hand grows clammy inside of hers. But he can't pull away, can't look away.

"-she is too wrapped up in her confusion and her growing bond with another doctor to be of any real help to you right now."

A surprised grunt escapes him.

"You think you're all alone." Her tone softens as her eyes narrow, digging deeper still, burrowing to the core. "I know how you feel."

He sucks in a breath and, with some relief, finds he is able to pull his hand away. His gaze glosses over his palm, his fingernails. Yep, everything is copasetic. But something tells him if he takes a trip back down to the core, he is sure to find the coven that summoned this odd being.

"Uh...Miss Dubois-"

The corner of her lip tugs into a half smile. "Please...call me Allison."

"Allison."

She nods, hitches her bag a smidge higher on her shoulder.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asks.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So," Dr. Wilson begins, leaning toward her, his cup of cafeteria brew steaming by his left hand, "who put you up to this? If I didn't know better I would say it was Dr. House. But it wasn't, was it? This whole disappearing act isn't some hoax...is it?"

Allison squashes his hope with two morose shakes of her head. She is seated across the desk from him, wishing she could have curbed herself. Allowing her visions to run rampant succeeded only in spooking the doctor and making her look like some kind of possessed loon. On the train to Princeton, she had primed herself to appear sane, normal and professional. Instead she gave Dr. Wilson what amounted to a reading. A reading! That's not why she's here.

"I'm not angry." The doctor flattens his palms flat against his desk. "I'm just tired, and being the butt of paranormal pranks just isn't on my agenda today."

"I understand your skepticism." She reaches in her bag, removes her business card and driver's license. "But I'm here for a reason, and it's not because I have a choice in the matter."

"See? There you go again."

"Call my boss."

The doctor studies the card, lower lip jutting forward as he reads. "You work for the District Attorney of Phoenix as a psychic advisor?"

"I'm more of an assistant."

"And what do you assist with?"

"Crime investigations, interviews. I help any way I can."

"I'll bet you do."

"All you have to do is call."

"Anyone can print up business cards." He waves the card at her before letting it and her license drop on the desk. "How do I know-"

"Then call Phoenix information, get the number for District Attorney Davalos." She is yelling now. The doctor rears back in his seat, which squeaks and groans from the sudden motion. He looks more than a little spooked, which is good. Maybe, she thinks with some small measure of hope, she has finally broken through Dr. Wilson's wall of disbelief.

He lets out a beleaguered sigh. "I have work to do, Ms. Dubois."

"Listen," She feels those long repressed tears prick the corners of her eyes. "If I had my way, I wouldn't be here. I would be with my family who, at this moment, are taking a hansom cab ride through Central Park."

The doctor lifts his Styrofoam cup, takes a small sip, then sets it down gently, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Ariel - my daughter - won a National Science Fair award, which is one reason we're in New York for the week. This is supposed to be a family vacation. But your friend-" She needs to pause, to pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers, to inhale deeply, to keep the tears at bay. "Your...friend is one persistent bastard."

Dr. Wilson ducks his head, runs a finger over his top lip. Allison is not sure if he is laughing or crying.

"He will not leave me alone."

"That...sounds like House."

"He's been in my head for weeks. Before he was even missing I saw him. In my dreams he was always a knight, a hero in rusty armor. Took a while before I got a look at his face. He's a stubborn one." She digs in her bag again, retrieving the drawing the sketch artist rendered.. "I described the man I saw in my dreams to our police sketch artist." She thrusts the folded paper at him. "This is what he came up with."

From the look on Dr. Wilson's face, Allison can tell she has succeeded in striking a large economy sized gong with a golden hammer. One of his unsteady fingers travels over the lines, the shadows, the curves, the peaks and valleys that make up the likeness of Gregory House. Then, as if the effort has sapped his strength, the doctor's hand drops to the desk; his face goes paste white. After another moment of careful scrutiny, he sets the drawing down, and picks up the phone.

He reaches Davalos with surprising ease, talks with him for almost ten minutes, offering a _Reader's Digest_ version of the situation at hand. From the one-sided conversation, Allison can tell her boss is doing a nice job of singing her praises.

The color returns to Dr. Wilson's face the moment he returns the phone to its cradle. "I need to apologize."

"It's not necessary."

"Yes, it is." His fingers play restlessly at the edges of the sketch. "The few promising leads the police have come up with have gone nowhere. My boss is suddenly intrigued with Dr. House's therapist. She thinks the sun shines out of his butt..." He gives her an apologetic wince.

"No problem."

She thinks he's got all the answers. I don't know." After running his fingers over the sketch, he bows his head and closes his eyes. "I think this therapist, Faulkner, is responsible in some way for Dr. House's decline and his disappearance. If you're going to help, there is a lot more you should know."

"Probably not as much as you think, Dr. Wilson."

"Call me James."

She smiles. "Again, please...call me Allison."

They exchange shy nods, like strangers preparing to dance.

The doctor shrugs. "Maybe you have an idea where to go from here, since no one else seems to."

With a tilt of her head, she narrows her eyes, allowing those thoughts, ideas, dreams, speculations from the past weeks unite. They make a noise that is nowhere close to being pretty: it is huge, dissonant, bleating like an under-rehearsed, cacophonous orchestra. In time, she assures herself, it will take shape, with a little practice, encouragement and patience it will shine.

"Dr. Wilson," she asks. "Have you ever heard of a shop called_Reichenbach Falls_?"


	27. The Gathering Clouds

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for her help and encouragement.

**-27-**

"The Gathering Clouds"

How long has it been since he's sat in the passenger seat of a car? A car! The night they brought him to the church it had been in a car. Then he was in the back seat, his face pressed to the cool tinted glass as the moon observed his progress. Rolling, rolling along.

This is much better.

_Damn straight_, _old man._

Lois pushed his seat back all the way allowing him room to stretch his legs. She returned his cane to him. _His _cane: the one with the flames near the tip, the one that makes him fly like the wind. He laughs out loud as the world _whooshes_ by in a multicolored blur. He laughs despite the fact his sore skin alternately itches and burns, laughs even though the welts on his back sting from the antibiotic ointment Lois applied to them moments ago. Eventually, the laughter slows to intermittent drips, stopping cold when his thigh begins its floor show.

"I need my pills."

_Aw, I'll just bet you've missed jamming fistfuls of Master V down your gullet. Screw the relaxation exercises. _

No.

_Bunch of horseshit. You couldn't keep up with them anyway. You ran. Bill's going to be sooo disappointed in you._

No!

_"_Soon, Greg. Can you wait...just a little while?"

Her eyes flick toward him as she drives, as she steers away from the church and its zombies and its meals of rabbit food and tainted soup. For the moment, House forgets his consternation over Bill and the exercises and all the reasons he ran away because Lois is smiling. She looks so _glad,_ like a little girl with a new doll. Her happiness is like a beam of moonlight, capturing both of them in its pure, pallid glow.

She doesn't think he knows, but he does. He knows lots of stuff. Much has been taken from him but he hasn't lost his powers of observation, of deduction, of noticing all the minute details about her and how his life has changed.

_Watch and learn._

The closer they get to midtown, the more congested the streets become. Traffic slows to a crawl, which doesn't bother him. He likes the cars; all the different makes and models and colors are interesting. It was the van that made him uncomfortable. It was too high off the road and smelled sickly sweet, like some old lady's perfume...like orchids.

_Like death._

This car, this dented, sputtering red Neon, smells like air freshener and Ivory soap.

Music drifts through the speakers: some folky thing with an earnest voiced woman singing about 'playing real good for free'. _Free. _The thrum of the motor, the s_woosh _of air through the vents makes him feel freer than he has since...when?

Seriously, he has lost track of the days, which is both frightening and liberating at the same time.

"What day is it?" he asks, rubbing his suddenly moist palms against his trousers.

"It's Tuesday, Greg."

_Tues-day._He mouths the word twice, adhering it to his memory like a purple sticky note. Tomorrow will be Wednes-day, which is when a green sticky note will replace the one from today, from Tues-day.

_Wednes-day._

"How long has it been?"

She stops for a red light. "What?" Her look is tolerance and sympathy topped with a dollop of anxiety.

"A week? A month?" He stares straight ahead. "I feel like I've been here for years."

"It's only been four days, child."

"My leg," he grumbles, rubbing the source of his distress.

"Soon, Greg. I promise."

Nodding, he folds his hands. "You have my jeans and my shirt and my jacket?"

"Yes."

"I won't have to wear these Kentucky Fried Chicken clothes anymore?" He indicates the church uniform by giving a quick tug on his sleeve.

"Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

"Red and white." He scrubs a hand through his hair, then lets it drift to his chin. Scratchy. His stubble is back. Good. He missed it. He hopes she doesn't make him shave it off. "They used to wear red shirts and white pants."

"Who did?"

"The guys behind the counter of Kentucky Fried Chicken."

She presses her lips together and responds with a curt shake of her head. Her eyes remain resolutely on the road, She doesn't want to talk about how ugly food uniforms resemble ugly cult uniforms. House can tell. He is observant. Details are important.

_Red, white, white, red. Dirty or clean?_

"I don't want any more soup."

He hopes she doesn't drug him again. The Passionflower makes his dreams thick and stifling and he can't think or reason or speak when it takes him over.

"No more soup," she assures him.

Perhaps he drifted for a moment. He doesn't recall closing his eyes but he is suddenly in that groggy half waking state, like he has just risen from a dream. For some reason his lashes are wet. The moisture on his cheeks is cold, unwelcome. One drop makes its way to the edge of his top lip. He opens his mouth to give it access. Salty. Sweet.

_Such a guuurrrrl._

"I want my suitcase and...my wallet...and my pills." His throat clicks, another tear begs for admittance. This time he refuses, letting it roll off his lips and down his chin. "You can drop me at the train-"

"You'll like where we're going, Greg."

Immediately he thinks of Bill again, since this is an upscale part of town, an area of wealth and prestige, a neighborhood where his best friend might set up shop. Could Bill have an office here? Is that their destination? Sure. It could be. Lois is just waiting for the right moment to spring the good news. He imagines the Publishing Clearing House crew. Happy, happy, happy. They sway beneath a sky filled with balloons. The smiling woman presents the Big Check, which morphs into Bill. The prize is Bill. Bill is the prize.

_Keep dreaming..._

Apartment buildings stand tall and proud, their steel and glass exteriors shimmer in the summer sun. Doormen wait at attention, ready to serve, like Palace Guards.

The occasional black Towncar or limousine rolls by, bringing to mind those sleek creatures featured on Animal Planet documentaries: cougars and jaguars bounding in slow motion through the jungle. Their bodies are long, strong and smooth. It is no wonder they have cars named after them.

His thoughts have taken him way out to sea, which is not what he intended. He wanted to pay more attention to street signs and crosswalks and maybe figure out where Bill might be waiting for him.

_No can do. Sit back and relax. Right now the old broad could put you through the wall with a look. That could change soon... that old fight will return and you can make your way back._

_(such a strong man)._

"Here we are."

He turns to look at her. "Is Bill here?"

Something in her demeanor cracks like an china plate on a gas flame. Her chin shivers.

"I'm sorry, child. No."

She places a hand on his shoulder and flips the frown upside down to offer a warm maternal smile. The night on the library steps she smiled at him the same way. It was the night he learned about the dirty colors and the clean colors.

_He is a healer. Stefan will like this one..._

They are in an underground garage, like the one at Princeton-Plainsboro, where he sometimes parks his bike.

He sits, breathes, listens.

Silence is a gauzy blanket through which faint echoes drift: footsteps, the quiet _shoosh_ of rubber against cement. Cars and vans and SUVs surround them like sleeping beasts waiting to be woken and liberated into an unsuspecting world. The fluorescent lights give the creatures a clean, just washed look.

_Breathe._

House thinks he could stare at them forever.

"Ready, Greg?" She retrieves his cane from the back seat and hands it to him.

Gingerly, he runs his fingers along the smooth shaft and over the painted orange-yellow flames near the tip.

"Come on then." She pushes open her door.

He stares at his sandals, tapping his cane against the plastic floor mat. "I can't do this anymore."

"It's almost over," she says. "Just one more day. Two at the most. I have your pills and a surprise."

His head jerks up, his eyes wide with hope.

"I won't lie to you," she says with a sigh. "It's not Bill."

He grunts and returns his gaze to the floor mat.

"But it's something you want," she says. "Something you've asked for many times."

Slowly he lifts his head, watches her eyes, waiting for them to flit away in a guilty rush. It doesn't happen.

"No lie?," he says.

"No lie. I promise. I have no reason to lie anymore."

He wraps his fingers around the sturdy head of his helpmate as Lois gets out of the car and pops open the trunk. She removes his suitcase and a shopping bag, sets them down as she eyes him through the rear window. She is patient, the most patient woman he has ever known.

_Something you want. She has something you want. Something you want..._

House manages to push open the door and ease himself out of the car, waiting for the ache in his bones to subside before taking a step. With one hand Lois hefts the suitcase, with the other she lifts the bag. Her sandals _scritch _along the concrete as she walks, as she glances over her shoulder, silently urging him to follow.

_...something you want._

The cane feels good and solid under his grip, his legs cooperating better than expected as he takes those first few tentative steps away from the car.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not surprisingly, the world has gone topsy-turvy and it sure is a crazy ride.

Yes. The world dips and rises, veering sharply into curlicues and sickening loop-de-loops until...

...its axis shatters.

Its pieces burn as brightly as klieg lights before exploding like a finale of fireworks. _Pop! Pop! Pow!_ And whaddya know? _He_ is still here - trapped on the big blue ball that remains. It rolls and tumbles, clipped by rushing stars and meteors and comets and moons as it careens through the endless black.

And he holds on tight.

Yeah, he is trapped with everyone else: the ignorant, the apathetic, the careless, the heartless, the ones who wield malevolence with a gentle hand. No one seems to notice how bad things really are except himself...and Allison.

She is as twisted up inside as he is. Allison is almost a total stranger, but her heart and soul are more lost within this dilemma than those who have known House for years.

Something is _wrong_ with that.

"So...he talks to you...in your dreams?"

"Not if he can help it," she says. "And getting a peek beneath that rotting, rusted helm was a major challenge."

Wilson chuckles and shakes his head as they exit the elevator, amazed he is even giving her words validity. But the Phoenix D.A. sang her praises. _There has to be something to this,_ he tells himself...again. His hands are shoved deep inside his lab coat pockets, his strides matching hers as they head toward Cuddy's office.

"It's more like he leads me places. Shows me things rather than tells me." She shrugs and gives Wilson a sidelong glance. "It's just his way, I guess."

"Oh, House can be quite eloquent...when he wants to be. If he is comfortable with you," Wilson says. "Otherwise he lets others do his talking for him."

"Ah...that makes sense."

Why does it make sense? He's not sure he wants to know.

They reach the exterior glass walls of Cuddy's office. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Wilson gives her a troubled look. "I mean, there is no way she is going to believe you."

"You did."

"Don't go by me. I've been married and divorced three times and I'm best friend's with Dr. House, which makes me a gullible fool or an eternal optimist." He shrugs a shoulder and throws her a cock-eyed grin. "Either way, I'm pretty open to the seemingly impossible,"

Allison manages a small smile and a weak laugh.

"You should prepare yourself." Placing his palm against the glass, his expression turns pensive. "She'll probably throw the two of us out."

"I've come to expect that sort of response."

He walks past her to the door and pushes it open. "Then...please...after you."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lois herds Greg through the living room, past the fireplace and the leather sofa and the marble coffee table. He is solemn as he lumbers on, _whapping_ his cane with a bit too much gusto against the polished cherry wood of the loveseat.

An exasperated click of Lois's tongue breaks the silence.

"Oops," House responds with wicked glee, like a boy who has shoved a frog down his friend's jeans.

"The less problems you make, the easier this will be for both of us," Lois scolds.

Smirking, unrepentant, he swaggers on.

On the hearth in the living room are framed testimonials to Stefan's selflessness and brilliance, while Artifacts of The Rising Age hang on the walls of the plush carpeted hallway.

Here is Stefan's original rendering of the church insignia: a line drawing of a sun peeking over the horizon surrounded by a circle of hands. Flanking it are photos of a beaming Stefan rubbing shoulders WWF guys who were ancient ten years ago. The has-been publicity seekers would have offered their names to anything, as long as it got them some press.

This fact is obviously lost on Stefan.

Greg takes the time to stop and look at the pictures, and seems genuinely interested in the wrestling brutes Stefan adores and Lois abhors. Leaning heavily on his cane, a smile tugs at his lips. His free hand shakes the vial of pills in a one-two-cha-cha-cha rhythm. Over and over again.

"Hulk Hogan, Captain Lou Albano. Ha! Jake the Snake?" He sniggers and shakes the pills with a bit more zeal. "Is Stefan a frustrated WWF champ wannabe?"

"He is a bit too short and small boned to compete," Lois says.

Tapping the vial against the underside of his chin, House's smile falters. "He's learned his pressure points pretty well though. Knew just where to press..."

Lois cocks her head.

"...to send me off to la-la land. Oops, I'm telling trade secrets now. Gosh, golly gee whiz. I _am_ sorry. It's just that surrounding himself with those big goons, trying to recruit these old-time wrestlers, he seems an eensy bit...obsessed."

"I'm sorry that happened to you." She places a hand on his arm. "If I were there-"

"Hey. It's not your fault." He cocks a brow as he shrugs off her touch. "Really, Ms. L. I mean, you're only holding a man against his will. _Pffft! _What could you possibly have to feel guilty about?" He moves on down the hall and stops in front of a closed door. "Is this where the action is?"

"While you're here, this will be your room."

"I can't wait."

She takes her place beside him and removes a key from her pocket.

"You know," he hisses in her ear, making her flinch, "I can leave here right now."

Her jaw clenches as she shoots him a spooked, saucer eyed look.

"It would be easy to grab the bag you dropped by the door and walk out."

The keys dangle from her fingers, her shoulders sag. "_I _have your money and the rest of your pills."

"We-ll..." He squints at the vial as he holds it up to the light. "I do believe I have enough to last the ride home."

"What about funds? How will you _get_ home?"

Leaning against the wall, he taps the tip of his cane against the door frame. "Aw, gee, I can't believe you would deny me what is rightfully mine. But hey, I could scoot downstairs right now, grab a cop by his meaty paw and introduce him to you." He winks. "I'm sure it would make his day to meet a real live kidnapper."

Thunder rumbles in the distance. The overhead light flickers. A summer storm is brewing.

Lois exhales softly through pursed lips and traces a circle on the wall with her forefinger. She didn't want it to come to this. "They're looking for you."

"Who?"

"Everyone. Your disappearance is news. There's a reward out for your return."

This gets him thinking. He runs a thumb along his jaw, lowers his head and sets his gaze on her.

"Lots o' moola, me suspects. Must be a nice chunk of change to get you so hot under the pantaloons, Ms. L. Of course you'll be donating it to this wonderful establishment you've put together...this _church."_ He tilts his head, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth._ "_Gotta love your altruism"

Her cheeks burn as she fixes him with an expression of disdain.

Thunder rumbles, louder this time. Storm's moving in fast.

"So...who put up this money?"

She straightens her shoulders, fixing him with her most confident look. "Bill," she replies.

The transformation is remarkable. Amazed, Lois wishes she had one-eighth of Bill's power. The mention of the name causes Greg to deflate like a needle pricked balloon. The lines in his brow deepen, his jaw works, the blue eyes darken, the skin beneath his stubble pales. He mouths his therapist's name, while his thumb worries along the bend of his cane's head.

Outside the rain begins. A steady torrent beats against the window sounding like gods seeking entry to this troubled world. Lightning cracks and sizzles, seeming to shake the building's foundation. The stink of ozone is too sharp, too close. The urge to run is nearly irresistible. But the image of a chilly Vermont morning brings sanity back.

"If you let me handle this, Bill will come to get you." The breathless excitement in her tone makes her stomach clench, but she presses on. "If you go off on your own, who knows what could happen? The reward is substantial. Twenty-thousand dollars. Anyone could waylay a handicapped man, snatch you right up, hold you for that ransom."

"Just...like you...Ms. L," he croaks, his gaze settling on the light fixture. "Ain't that the truth?"

"Don't cause a fuss, Greg." Anger grips her like a claw around the throat. "It's not all about you anymore." She shoves the key into the lock and twists the knob. A sudden intense weariness blots out the anger. She just wants this to be over.

_So tired of doing for the others. So damn tired._

"Go." She pushes the door open and watches as he rubs his brow, as his mouth moves, as he hangs his head. She can almost hear his weary bones creak as he makes his way into the room.

Pulling the door closed, she locks it, then sets off to keep her promise, to get Greg what he has been yearning for.

How lucky he is to have her.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A single touch is worth more than an hour's worth of chatter.

It comes as no surprise to Allison how much she 'got' from shaking Dr. Cuddy's hand. Concern, worry and fear flowed from Cuddy in waves, doing their damnedest to wear the administrator down.

Those dark circles under Cuddy's eyes, the slight tremor in her fingers as she tapped her pen against her blotter were not lost on Allison. It was obvious Dr. House was more to her than just a runaway employee. This was personal. Cuddy and Dr. House are friends. At one time, Cuddy's relationship with Dr. House went deeper, but that area is grey and murky, like shadows under a stairwell.

As James predicted, the meeting did nothing to convince Cuddy of how Allison's abilities might help find Dr. House. The Phoenix D.A.'s stamp of approval served only to aggravate and alienate Cuddy from the two of them. When the woman made her mind up about something she was like a stone wall. Despite James's best efforts, Cuddy could not be moved, which is too bad because Cuddy is a mess. The touch told Allison...so much.

Palm against palm, skin against skin. Nice to meet you, nice to...

_...Cuddy's tears fall like black rain. In her office, behind her desk, she is powerless to escape as it saturates her PC, her books, her plants. Her_.

She sobs in private and in the presence of one person, a person Allison envisioned.wielding a silver wand, a person possessing a gaze and voice that both soothed and entranced.

Bill. She remembers. He came to her early on, in the dream with the stallion and the woods and the house with blue eyes.

_"Lancelot."_

He is in Cuddy's head in a big way.

(_a flashing red dagger, a danger, someone who will eventually cause Cuddy to unwittingly become an accessory...)_

"Allison?"

She gasps and jerks forward as far as the seatbelt will allow.

"Welcome back," Wilson turns the wheel of the Volvo and pulls into a convenient spot by a parking meter. "I've spent the last ten minutes trying to get your attention." His tone is more concern than annoyance. "You okay?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I was just putting things in perspective...all the dreams, the meeting with Cuddy."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I learned a lot."

"She practically threw you out."

"It doesn't matter, James."

"How could it not matter?" His fingers continue to tighten around the wheel until his knuckles go white.

"Don't get so upset," she tells him. "It's not helping."

He releases the wheel and leans back, glowering at the storm clouds gathering in the distance. Bad sign. What else is new? Folding his arms across his chest, he stares at the passing cars in a world that is oblivious to how messed up life has become. "We're supposed to be working together."

"That's finished. Bill Faulkner is in her head now. She is smitten...and...he is about to bring her to the next level."

"What does that mean?"

Allison clasps her hands in her lap. "He wants to control her, he needs a guarantee that when House is found, Bill Faulkner will be the first person Cuddy contacts, before you, before anyone."

"You saw this?"

"Yes," she says. "I...saw it."

He throws up his hands. "Why should it matter _who_ gets to House first?"

"I don't know."

Muttering under his breath, he watches the passersby, as if one of them might pop his head in the window and speak the magic word to make everything right again. "So what do we do?"

"We do what we came here to do." With a tilt of her chin, she indicates the store across the street. "And Reichenbach Falls is where we begin."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	28. Raining All Over the World

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing...and for your patience. We will be coming into the homestretch very soon.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for her help and encouragement.

**-28-**

"Raining All Over the World"

This might be a good time to talk about the dreams House forgets. Each day they assault him, emanating from deep inside his psyche, in that special room Bill created especially for him. He doesn't recall them because he is not supposed to. But that is good. Really, he's better off this way.

Unbeknownst to him, somewhere in the twisted nerves, neurons, synapses and candy floss that make up his brain, those dreams are constantly cavorting, preparing for the next show.

Not that there are many of them. Bill believes in quality over quantity, but they are a hearty bunch, taking any opportunity to strut their stuff, to work it, work it, work it good.

The times House blanks out is when they shine, leaving only minutes, sometimes seconds to get the job done. But oh, they're good. They know exactly what to-

_he is on the train, seated comfortably in this ornate Orient Express type railroad car, floating past the pyramids he so adores: Mykerinos the Divine, Chephren the Great, Cheops the Horizon. They are golden, swimming in shadows, kissed gently by the late afternoon sun. It is a lovely scene. Picture postcard perfection. He sinks into the velvet softness of the seat and enjoys the view. But his reverie is disturbed as the door between the cars bangs again, again and again. _

_He doesn't remember rising to his feet, can't recall reaching for his cane but suddenly here he is by the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! The urge to reach for the handle is strong. The voice on the other side goads him, tempts him, entrances him._

_"Greg."_

_Through the window he can see Bill standing in the aisle of the next (the last) car. Bill turns the jewel encrusted sword over and over in his hands, smiling and chortling as purple-white sparks fly from the tip. House needs that sword, wants it more than anything. Anything._

_His fingers scrabble against the door until the tips are bloodied and the nails are torn and blackened._

_Bill's laughter is still in his ears as he awakens. _As it fades, he forgets, and all that remains are the tears rolling down his cheeks.

You get the idea.

-------------------------------------------------------------

She has no intention of going far. The wind continues to whip round and round like a lasso at a rodeo, and although the rain has stopped, its scent is heavy in the air. In the distance, thunder continues to rumble, like a portent of bad things to come.

She breaks into a half run, taking care as she does. Her sandal soles have a tendency to slide on wet concrete. The damn things caused her to take a tumble on more than one occasion. One thing she doesn't need is to be laid up with a sprained ankle. Still, she can't slow down. She musn't. Abruptly she puts on some speed. Caution goes out the window as she envisions Stefan barging into the apartment, sticking his nose in her business, ruining her plans.

Breathless now, Lois slows her pace to a purposeful stride and enters the coffee shop. Ignoring the curious glare of the counter girl, Lois half collapses, half leans against the counter, swallowing hard, waiting for the triphammer beat of her heart to slow. She manages a thin smile as she places her order and receives a grumble and sneer for her trouble. _No matter, doesn't matter._ Parking herself in the metal chair by the coat rack, she clings to her ticket and waits for her number to be called.

_Sixty-seven, lucky seven, sixes and sevens..._

On a normal day she would welcome this respite from her duties. But today she can't seem to keep her hands still; her fingers fret over one another like restless, hungry birds. Her thoughts wander, escorting her to a future that will never happen if she doesn't work this just right.

She needs to make that call, to let Greg's people know he is alive and well and safe. But not yet, not until she can smooth out the preliminaries. Take it slow, step by step.

The first course of action is to heal the healer. She will allow Greg to administer his own meds, since he seems to know best how to keep himself pain free. Anything that will get him into a more positive mindset is fine with her. Not much she can do about those scrapes down his back except to continue applying the antibacterial ointment.

_Stefan's fault. Sadistic, morally bankrupt bastard._

By tomorrow those ugly welts will have healed appreciably, just in time for the party to start.

Yes. A happy child is a loving and obedient charge . Greg will appreciate her efforts, hold no malice toward her, so that when asked, he will sing her praises and tell the authorities how she saved him from Stefan's wrath.

_Why did you take him in the first place? _Would they ask? Not initially. The excitement of discovering him safe and whole will surely tuck a lot of questions under the rug.

_For a little while._

The thought keeps nudging her, jabbing her like a stick in the side. Would the moment of Greg's abduction return to bite her on the butt?

_I was working to please Stefan. Didn't have a choice in the matter..._She can hear herself offering this plausible rationale to the police. _...just as much a prisoner as any of them. Stefan is a charismatic leader...we would do anything to please him...the co-founder of The Rising Age? Yes I am that...but...but...but..._

Would Greg rat her out, spill everything about the Passionflower soup and the brainwave entrainment? Would he tell them how he was programmed, drugged, chanted over so he was able to recite the basic tenets of the Writ backwards, forwards and crosswise? His money and clothes were taken from him? _Yes, officer, yes, yes, yes!_ Would Greg come to her aid or disregard the fact that in the end Lois had treated him like a son, offered him compassion and care.

The latter...probably.

She leans forward, her elbows settling on her knees as she masks her face with shaky hands. A vision of greenbacks fluttering into the blue like migrating geese causes her to hiccup a weak sob into her palms. Vermont suddenly seems as a far off as a distant star.

"Sixty-Seven..."

She raises her head, disoriented for the moment, until she meets the tired, impatient eyes of the counter girl. Hilda is her name, according to the faded blue badge on her apron.

"Sixty-Seven,_ma-am!"_

A grin is in order here, the grin of a true believer. Lois pastes it on just right as she steps up to the counter. After blessing Hilda with a twenty and a ten, she receives $1.60 back for her trouble.

"Life is what you make it, child," she says in her best Mother Church voice. Grabbing her bags, Lois heads for the exit, reveling in the caustic hoot following her out the door. Someday, if she is lucky, Hilda will learn that life will eventually do you a favor, if you have the guts and patience to wait it out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thunder rolls.

She is aware of the time element, that she needs to hurry this along. Stopping was a bad idea but the wind whipped her around once, twice until suddenly she was staring into the eyes of Dead Kid. His look is soft, apologetic, as if he is sorry to be intruding in her life. Guilt washes over her.

_All he wants to do is help and you've got him feeling like a criminal._

"What is it?" The question leaves her mind and seeps through him, like he is a sponge, absorbing everything.

"Something by the door, waiting for you, you need to look. Take a good look, Allison."

She whips round as real time lags; the turn is a slow motion pirouette. Reality is a blur, rain falls in black sheets but she is not part of the physical, doesn't feel the torrents saturating her pores, causing her hair to hang drenched and lank against her cheeks and brow.

_Lookee, lookee, cookie..._

In a distant land, Wilson calls to her. Through a Vaseline haze she sees him wave frantically at her to follow. He stands protected under the awning of the shop. Good, stay there, stay there. She tosses off the silent message, despite the fact he can't hear her. He is not Dead Kid.

She knows she should escape the elements. But she is not done here. Not yet...

_Lookee._

By the door she kneels, closes her eyes, allows her fingers to brush the rust colored splotches on the ground. They look like drops of ink or paint, which is why no one has seen fit to scrub them away.

_Blood...yes...my blood. Couldn't help it. The store is closed. How can the store be closed? Beyond the window. There it is. God, there it is. The sword. Bill's sword. I need it. It should be mine. But it's not mine. It's behind the glass. They won't give it to me. They won't understand that it's mine._

_Shake the gate, make sure they know. My need. Steel cuts skin. Beautiful, beautiful. The pain, the sting...so good. But they're coming for me, dragging me, thick arm around my neck, stopping the blood flow to the brain, shoving me down-_

She gasps, pain floods into her shoulder from the fingers digging, digging harder.

_"Aaaaachh!_

"Allison...Allison!"

How long has he been calling her, shaking her, willing her to rejoin the land of the living? From the tilt of his head and his look of concern mixed with weariness, she figures it has been too long. The rain has taken a hike, leaving behind gunmetal grey clouds as assurance more bad weather is just around the bend.

"You're drenched. You're going to get sick." He helps her to her feet. Her stockings are ripped, her knees are scraped, gritty, soiled and bloody.

"I'm sorry it's just-" She swallows against the lump that has formed in her throat. Taking one unsteady step back, she swipes wet strands of hair from her cheeks. "He was here."

"When?" Wilson places a hand on her shoulder again. The touch is warm this time. Gentle.

"I...don't know. He was bleeding."

"Bleeding?"

"His hand was bloodied from pounding the gate." She indicates the folded rusted security gate with a toss of her hand. "The blood. It didn't bother him. Actually he kind of liked it. He wore a red shirt, white pants...sandals."

"Sandals?" Wilson shakes his head slowly. "Why was he pounding the gate?"

"The sword. Bill's sword. There!" At the window, Allison's voice cracks as she jabs a finger at the jewel encrusted sword. "That's it. That what he wanted. No." She pauses, draws a breath. "It's what he _needed_. He was frantic for it, James."

Wilson taps his chin and lifts a brow, eyeing the circle of pewter and silver dragons, the rings and turquoise spangled bracelets and miniature wands. At the display's center is the sword, its jewels shining dully, reflecting the grey day. "Faulkner said something about a sword-"

Allison takes a moment to press her palms against her temples as she sniffs away the remaining tears. "I want to look around the store."

"Let's go back to the car first so you can dry off-"

"There's no time, James."

Dead Kid stands off to one side, nodding in agreement in his somber, silent way.

"Maybe there's an answer in there, something important we've overlooked." Her hand is already on the door handle. "Come on." Her blouse is soaked, sticking to her skin; the slight breeze is balmy, almost tropical, but it chills her, making her teeth chatter. She hopes the guys in Reichenbach Falls have eschewed the air conditioning for today.

She pauses to take a deep, calming breath as Wilson steals behind her. He pushes the door open wide, holding it for her as she thanks him and heads inside.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He comprehends what has been laid out before him. Still...he doesn't quite believe.

"It's a trick, right?" he asked moments ago, gawping at the gifts.

"No, child."

He recalls the tremor in his fingers as he pulled back the foil, the heady scent making him nearly dizzy with delight.

"What did you do to it?" he croaks. He balls up the foil, tosses it to the floor, his gaze never leaving the burger set before him in all its succulent glory.

"Nothing, child."

"It's a trick. I'll eat this and end up hallucinating for days, probably wake up alone in a railroad car somewhere in Idaho."

Lois's smart little chuckle makes him want to hit her with his cane.

"How do you come up with these foolish ideas, Greg?" she asks.

"I don't know, maybe past experience has skewed my ability to trust."

They lapse into silence, Greg's attention shifting back to the food.

It's all here: burger, fries, chicken noodle soup, strawberry shake, apple pie. He blinks in disbelief, his gaze wandering over the fare for the fifth time.

"It's going to get cold," Lois tells him. "It won't taste good if it's cold."

His finger travels round the cup's rim. "Don't you have a real bowl for the soup? This is Styrofoam. And the utensils should be stainless steel...no plastic...never used plastic at the diner." Fingers take stock, touching burger, soup, shake, fries, pie...again..."It's not right."

"Eat it or I'll throw it away, Greg." Lois warns, retrieving the remaining napkins from the paper bag and tossing them on the table. "We have much to discuss. I will explain the Contemplation to you, after which I will need to tend to your back again."

His gaze makes one final trek across the culinary terrain before landing on her. "You're not doing this for me."

She stands on the other side of the butcher block table, her hands gripping the back of the chair, as she gives him a look of disdain. "What are you talking about?"

He frowns, somewhat taken aback. She was never an ornery bitch at the church. "Temper, Ms. L..."

"Eat your food."

"Why? So when the cavalry comes they won't have you to blame? They'll see I've been fed and pampered." His eyelids flutter as he throws her a beatific grin. "And...loooved."

"You're being smart with me and I don't like it." Her chest heaves; she stamps one foot against the tile.

"Temper." House wags a finger, then sips his shake, closing his eyes at the sweet, cool richness of it.

"You ought to be grateful I got you out of there."

House glares at her as he licks the remnants of strawberry cream from his lips. "Cut the crap, Lois. I'll say it again: you're not doing any of this for me."

Her mouth falls open.

_Six points, old man._

"Very good," he croons. "You practice that look in front of a mirror?"

"You have a real problem." Gone is the confidence she had so aptly displayed. Now her voice is hoarse and low, shaking like the last leaf of autumn.

"For some reason I can't fathom, you need to keep me sane and whole and right. Hmmm. It couldn't have anything to do with the reward money, could it?" House lifts the burger and gazes knowingly over the bun. "Gosh, maybe it does. It just wouldn't do to drug me or lock me up. What would the good folks think finding me in a state like that? He narrows his eyes. "It might just jeopardize your chance for monetary gain."

She exhales softly, her top teeth graze her lower lip. "Your food is getting cold, Greg... Bill wouldn't like that."

_Shoot, score!_

His eyes go wide, then plummet to the burger in his hands, like he is seeing it for the first time. He takes one tentative bite, then another...another. Time to dig in. Chomp, chomp, chew, chew, slurp...slurp. Again. In rhythm, in time to that inner beat. One-and-a-two-and-a...three, four, five.

It doesn't take long before the last morsel is devoured, the final drop guzzled.

Smirking, Lois begins to clear the table, tossing napkins, wrappers and ketchup packets into the trash. She has the prideful look of the jockey in the winners circle, the lucky one who gets the gelt, leading the prize horse around for all to see.

Her treasured steed belches. Sated, spent and bloated, almost drunk on excess, he slumps forward and rests his chin in his hands.

"Excellent, Greg." Smiling, she brushes her hands together. "Let's get you into your Contemplation robe in case we have any unexpected visitors."

"Hmmph..."

"After that we can talk about tomorrow and the wonderful things it's going to bring...to both of us."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The floorboards creak beneath their feet; the sound is more pervasive than the blues tune crackling and groaning from the speaker hanging from the ceiling. _So this is Reichenbach Falls, _Wilson thinks. _The stuff that dreams are made of._ An ugly mess of a place? Sure. But it does possess a squalid sort of charm.

Grey slants of light sift through the grime streaked window, while two ceiling lamps throw a muted amber glow over the shop. The combination is barely sufficient to illuminate the hundreds of pewter figurines lining the shelves in the display cases and on the walls.

Shadow fingers reach out to touch the residents of The Falls, to caress the knights, the castles, the fair princesses, the creatures of the night. In the center of the room, the scarlet eyes of a silver-grey dragon glimmer and wink before going cold again.

But something is amiss. Ah, yes, the trashcan by the fire exit is doing its darndest to ruin the ambiance of mystery and magic. It is overflowing with coffee cups and newspapers. Over there, on the floor, Good Humor ice cream wrappers consort with crumpled packs of Marlboros and a crushed can of Coke.

With a snort of disgust, Wilson shifts his gaze back to the dragon...

The combined scents of dust, turpentine and stale beer give Wilson's_agita_ that much more to feed on. Allison doesn't seem to be at her best either. She grasps his upper arm to steady herself. It could be the grit in her knee or, perhaps, the blood trickling down her leg that is hampering her style.

_Or how about that vision she had just outside the door? That might just count for something, don't you think?_

A slovenly guy clad in a sweat stained t-shirt glowers at them from his perch behind the front desk. He is the epitome of Bowery chic; a stars and stripes bandana adorns his shaved head, a worn leather band is wrapped around one wrist. This must be Sir Reichenbach, master of this strange, bleak domain.

Wilson spies an eBay auction page on Sir Reichenbach's computer screen. Buying? Selling? Just looking? Why should the thought have even crossed his mind?

"You're drippin'," The guy waves a pen in lazy circles in Allison's direction. "and bleedin'."

"Sorry," she says. "We won't be staying long."

"Hell, I don't care how long you stay..." His head whips toward the screen. He taps a key. "Awwww, no, no, NO!" He grits his teeth and pounds the keyboard with rabid fury. "Sonofa--". Hands dropping to his side, he hangs his head in despair and lets out a long breath. "Swiped it right out from under me." Sighing, he drums his fingers against the desk. "It was Mead's sister. I was high bidder on Mead's sister for the last five hours. Damn!" His fist meets his desk, his cheeks and pate gradually turning purple, then red, then back to a mouse eared pink.

Mead...the dragon from Allison's daughter's dream. Wilson steals a look at the woman as she places a hand to her chest and closes her eyes.

"Shit, yeah. Mead, that dragon over there-" He hitches a thumb at the silver creature. "-they made only five hundred of her sister figure. Been looking for it a long time. Thought this was my lucky day. Damn..." Shrugging, he gives the screen a dismissive wave. Lifting his brows, he peers over the counter. "Can I get you a bandage, lady?"

"Oh...no. I'll be okay." Pressing her lips together, she reaches into her bag to retrieve a tissue and the drawing of House. "Have you've ever seen this man?" She hands Sir R. the wilting, crumpled paper, then squats to dab the tissue against the congealing blood on her leg.

Sir Reichenbach sets the paper on his counter and smoothes it with the flat of his palm. Chewing the end of his pencil, he gives the drawing an intense scrutiny.

"This isn't that doctor they're looking for, is it?" he asks, tapping the pencil against his pock-marked cheek. "He looks kind of like the guy on the front page of this week's_ Ledger."_

"Yeah," Wilson says. "You've seen him?"

"Nah." the guy tosses the pencil to the side, and returns the drawing to Allison. "Wish I had. Could use the money to spruce this place up a little."

"...a little..." Wilson nods and sighs.

Allison folds the drawing and stows it in her bag. She is done with her cleanup. A little spit on the tissue did the trick to erase any traces of blood. But Wilson can still see dots of grit shining in her knee. Before he sees her back to her hotel they will stop at the pharmacy, pick up some essential first aid items. The knee has to be cleaned, disinfected and bandaged before Allison can be reunited her family. One thing the woman doesn't need is an infection on top of everything else she's been through-"

"Maybe he joined a cult," the guys says.

Allison's gasps. Her mouth moves but she can't seem to mold the words, to articulate the question that is stuck in her gullet like a piece of gristle.

"You okay, lady?" Sir Reichenbach asks, squinting and twiddling the pencil between two fingers.

"Why would you say that?" she manages to croak.

Wilson takes a step back, his eyes are very wide. His heart steps up a beat; a muscle in his cheek twitches as Mead tosses him a sparkly wink.

"I'm concerned," Sir R. smiles, revealing a Chicklet sized space where an incisor should be. "I'm a real people person, despite the appearance to the contrary."

Allison shakes her head; her hand reaches out like she is beseeching him to listen, to understand. "No, about the cult. Why would you think Doctor House joined a cult?"

"We-ell," he begins, clicking his fingers, obviously enjoying this. "The article called your doctor a loner, a real troubled guy with issues. Makes him a perfect recruit," he says.

Wilson scratches his head "You know these cult people ?"

"Aw, they come round here on Sundays, all decked out in their red shirts and white pants, wearing those stupid sandals, looking like rejects from a color war-"

"Sundays?" Allison's face goes paste white as she sways, giving Wilson a darn good reason to scurry behind her and grab her shoulders.

Sir Reichenbach continues. "Yeah, I'm closed then, don't want to deal with their weekly recruitment drive. But I keep an eye on them, I live upstairs, watch 'em through the window sometimes." He eyes Allison, then turns to Wilson. "Is she okay?"

Wilson pats her shoulder. "She'll be fine.

"Did you see them this past Sunday?" Allison asks.

"Nah, it was my day to take my kid out. Visitation rights are far _owwwt._" Spoken like a true sixties stoner.

"What does this cult call themselves?" Wilson removes a memo pad and a stubby pencil from his jacket's inner pocket.

"Ach, I think it's Rising...something or other...Rising Age. Church of the Rising Age." Sir. R. grumbles. "Stupid shit."

"Thank you." Wilson takes Allison by the arm and escorts her to the door. "You've helped a lot."

"Woah, hold on there, guys." Sir Reichenbach leaves his perch and tromps down the aisle after them. Paint splattered cut-offs and green sneakers only add to his charm. "The name's Irv." He offers his hand and Wilson stares at it for a moment before reluctantly reciprocating. "You should drop by next Sunday, check out these church guys. If it turns out your pal's taken up with the Rising Age, you're gonna throw me a few bucks, right?"

"Why, Irv," Wilson says "It's nice of you to care so much about a stranger's welfare. I'll just bet there's a halo and wings being manufactured for you as we speak."

Irv's eyes bug out. "Hey, you never know, right?"

"Oh, I know." Wilson turns on his heel. He holds the door open and follows Allison out without looking back.


	29. Magic and Wonder

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her encouragement and help.

**-29-**

"Magic and Wonder"

Faulkner is actually having fun. Spending time with Lisa is invigorating, like a splash of cool water in the ninety degree heat. Her laughter is contagious; he hasn't laughed this much since...since when? Maybe since those first heady days with Dorie. But _she_ always had an ulterior motive. Granted, what she desired most from their 'dates' was to get him into bed. He held her at bay for as long as he could, since he knew once the sex began the relationship would deteriorate. And it did. Quickly. But Dorie still doesn't seem to get the idea that whatever drew them together took a powder after their last fierce romp. Of late, Dorie has become annoyingly persistent, leaving two or three voicemails a day: sometimes at his office or his New York apartment, and occasionally on his cell.

He never calls her back.

There is no reason to return her calls (which are sounding more and more like the ramblings of a demented nymphomaniac). Faulkner realizes now with an even stronger sense of certainty that he never wants to see Dorie again.

Maybe he should change his phone numbers. But not now. Too much to think about now.

Lisa is beside him. She'd wanted the passenger window down, to feel the night wind in her hair. Her beautiful hair. It is difficult paying attention to the road when her head is tilted back that way, her long neck exposed, hair cascading and rippling over her seatback. She smells like a bouquet. No particular floral scent defines her. She is a garden, a bevy of rose petals and lilies, pink asters and daffodils.

Running his tongue across his upper lip, he turns up the Ravel piece on the Bose stereo, then concentrates on the road. He would have missed the exit had he not quelled his lust. Soon there will be time for those thoughts to take precedent. For now he will keep things moving slow and easy.

Something more important must be tended to first. Turn one page, then another. That's the way to get results.

Earlier that evening, at Le Jardin Rose, Lisa cried. She was seated across from him, dipping a raw clam in cocktail sauce, when the tears began. Faulkner's story of his first boyhood experience at the opera (a horse shat upon the hallowed stage of the Met during _Carmen) _had her in stitches just moments before. But a thin line exists between tears of laughter and sorrow, which Lisa abruptly crossed. Without warning she was sobbing in her food and her wine, using her napkin to dab at her cheeks and eyes. Black and pink streaks stained the white linen.

"House," she muttered over and over, the tide of tears seeming to sweep her away.

Faulkner let her cry, ignoring the curious stares and murmurs of the waiters and patrons. He buttered a piece of crusty bread, taking small squirrel like nibbles as he waited for her sobbing to cease.

It took her a few moments to compose herself. She sniffled, set her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. "I'm sorry," she muttered, then found her wine glass and took three long swallows before meeting his eyes again. The ghost of her tears lingered on her cheeks.

"Why?"

"I shouldn't have-"

Faulkner shrugged, cleared his throat. "It's alright to let your feelings out. Nothing wrong with it."

His words struck a chord. Blushing, she averted her gaze, scraped her nail against a Chianti colored splotch on the tablecloth. "He's my _friend_ and he's delusional and he's probably in some sort of trouble. House is...so damn impulsive and impetuous. It's no stretch to surmise he got involved with the wrong people..."

_Where had all the wine gone? _Faulkner wondered, pouring the last inch of Chianti into Lisa's glass. He might have had taken a few sips - not much more. But Lisa...she'd drunk more than her share and, despite her weepiness, it seemed she was beginning to feel a nice mellow buzz, which was good. Soon he would get her to relax even more...

He watched her down the last of her drink, while calling up a memory of the time Mother's treasured cat Percy died. Mother had sunk into a funk so deep, not even her ancient Caruso recordings could cheer her. And though Faulkner thought she was being irrational, he felt compelled to look inside himself to find some glimmer of sympathy for her plight.

The problem was, he didn't care that Percy had died. It was just a cat, after all, and animals held no fascination for him. Mangy things were more trouble than they were worth. But it was Mother's cat, and Mother was upset so he supposed he ought to try to feel...something.

And so it was, fourteen year old William Faulkner taught himself to shapeshift, to mold and morph his features, his _being, _to elicit a desired response from others.

In the bathroom mirror, he raised his brows just so, one lifting minutely higher than the other. Satisfied, he hefted one corner of his lip so slightly it was almost imperceptible. But it gave him a sort of helpless, caring little boy look. And it was good. It was convincing. But it wasn't enough. He paced the tiles, goading himself, willing himself to bring forth emotion, and was imminently surprised and pleased at the tears rolling down his cheeks. He could actually bring himself to tears! He allowed them to flow for two minutes, then squashed them. After taking a moment to regain his composure, he gave himself another two minutes to turn the waterworks on again...

...and it worked. Perfectly.

Later at dinner he put his newfound talent to the test. As his tears flowed, he marveled at the astonishment on Mother's face. Here was the woman who knew him better than anyone in the world, yet he had fooled her completely. This was power, _this_ was absolute charisma. To cheer him she promised they would get a new cat, tucked ten dollars in his shirt pocket and spooned an extra helping of strawberry ice cream into his bowl.

Now his eyes searched Lisa's as he bade a thimble full of tears to come forth, to shimmer in his tear ducts and pool just above the lower lids.

"I'm sorry, Lisa," He crafted a tone that was gentle yet held a note of deep sorrow.

"Oh...," she breathed.

And...he had her. He could tell by how her shoulders slumped, how her cheeks flushed, and how quickly she reached to grip his hand.

"I understand you're concerned for your friend and colleague," he said in a sotto voice. "But there is something deeper here. A bond between the two of you. Perhaps there is a bit of unfinished business?"

She nodded. "Yes. But it was a long time ago. Been and gone." With a shrug and a sniff, she added, "Water under the bridge and all that."

Rubbing his thumb along the side of her forefinger, he lifted a brow just a tad higher. "It's okay to love someone."

"It's been a long time since I've felt that way."

"You repress your feelings."

"I have to. In my position-"

He dug deep, excavated his most genuine smile and tried it on. From the way she smiled back he could tell it was a good fit. "I'd like to hear more about you and about your relationship with Greg, if you'd like to tell me."

"Maybe...another time."

"Haven't you ever confided in anyone about him?"

Their fingers entwined; he caressed her palm with the tip of his thumb.

"No..."

He whispered. "I have a fireplace in my apartment."

"Do you?"

"Hmm, yes."

"Anything else?" She was playing along; her eyes were much too bright. The wine and conversation were melting her reserve, opening her up, setting her free.

"I have a lovely, comfortable sofa."

"Ye-esss?"

"More wine and better music."

"Sounds good."

They rushed through dinner and skipped dessert.

Now Faulkner decides to park across the street from his apartment building, rather than in his assigned space. To lead the inebriated woman from the underground garage to the elevator would be daunting. As it is, he needs to support her around the waist to navigate her past parked cars and oncoming traffic.

Half giggling, half sobbing, she stumbles against him, causing them both to stutter step and twirl into a half spin. He imagines they must look like two wayward ballroom dancers returning home after a night on the town.

Their bodies press together. He takes stock of her slim waist, wide hips, ample breasts. If he could manage it he would sigh, close his eyes, enjoy the sensation. But he is struck mute. Her hair tickles his cheek, her scent is everywhere. Abruptly, he shakes off the burgeoning arousal. He must remain in control of his faculties. There is much he must accomplish before the night is over.

Johnny would be proud of his reserve.

By the doorway Lisa pauses to let out a long breath and rest her head against his shoulder. The urge to caress, to feel, to hold is almost overpowering. _Just a little bit? Okay_. One hand runs lightly through her hair. And then he knows he is in the lap of the gods, drawing their luck and power into him like draughts of fresh air. Again the stars are in the right and proper alignment. He is obviously loved, cared for, adored.

These thoughts stay with him like loyal, stalwart friends as he leads Lisa through the entranceway. The warm light of the lobby welcomes them. She giggles; the scent of her sour-sweet breath is every bit as rousing her perfume.

He pockets his lust like it is a handful of spare change. Later there will be time to dole it out, spend it as he sees fit.

Later...

-------------------------------------------------------------

Joe is not happy with her. Supportive, yes. Understanding, certainly. But happy and Joe are not a matching pair tonight, which upsets her.

Allison figures her family would have had a grand old time, exploring the shops, riding a Hansom cab in the Park, checking out the wax museum. According to Joe, they did all that. Four Dubois out on the town, three little girls wearing faces like 'fried eggs'. Joe has the picture to prove it.

She apologizes. He shrugs, grunts, does not say he is unhappy. But she knows he is.

They lay side by side on top of the comforter. Joe has not mentioned her bandaged knee since she explained about the shop and the vision earlier.

_Enough_, his thought plays in her mind. _Enough_.

The girls are sleepy; Ariel and Bridget are more argumentative than usual, sniping at each other over what television shows to watch.

"Maybe it's time to go home." Joe gives Allison a questioning, sidelong glance.

Her stomach clenches and flips over twice, like an overcooked pancake. She can't go home. Not when they're so close. "We still have two more days."

"You know as well as I do we've pretty much overstayed our welcome." His lips twitch as he pats her hand. "No one's having much fun anymore."

"Joe-"

He raises a finger. "Your reasons for wanting to stay have nothing to do with us." His eyes graze the girls before landing on her. "And you know it."

"You're calling me selfish?" she hisses.

"No...but you have blinders on. Tunnel vision I believe is the technical term." He motions at the girls with his chin. "Think about them. Just consider about how special this trip is supposed to be because they're with both of us. _Both_ of us."

"It's not my fault."

"You have to make a choice this time, Allison."

"Really?"

"Yes. This whole mess with your missing knight who turned out to be a missing doctor is out of your hands. Haven't you helped enough? You've given them a starting point."

She doesn't know how to tell him that 'this whole mess' is part of her, deeply ingrained in her heart and mind - as much as he is, as much as their daughters are.

"What is there to think about, Allison?"

She shakes her head, glances at the girls who have fallen asleep on their blankets on the floor; the TV murmurs on and on like a Greek chorus. What she wants is to see this through until Sunday, to perhaps go to the recruitment drive, get definitive proof that Dr. House has joined the Church of the Rising Age.

But marriage, life and relationships in general are rife with compromise. No, this 'Disappearing Doc' case is not all about her, but the fact that she will have to leave it unsolved fills her with dread.

"Can you give me one more day?" she asks.

He stares at her...hard, making a grand effort to maintain that look of somber intensity. But she can see the slight movement in his jaw, a softness behind his eyes, the _give. _

"And what's that going to do?" he asks gently.

"I don't know. I have a feeling..."

"A feeling..."

"Yes."

Joe bows his head, flexes his fingers, exhales softly. "Alright."

"We'll get a Thursday flight out." She takes his hand, grips it tightly, his reciprocal strength assuring her that she hasn't yet morphed into a horrible wife or an uncaring mother.

He is silent as he moves off the bed, making his way toward the sleeping children. Gently, he lifts Marie off her blanket and places her on the cot. Still in a fog, Ariel and Bridget struggle to their feet, their eyelids heavy, movements slow. They look like two drunken Hobbits, yawning and mumbling in drowsy unison, before falling into their bed.

After switching off the lamp, Joe seats himself next to Allison; his hand drifts through her hair. "I hope you find him." he says.

"Thanks." Smiling, she closes her eyes. "Love you too."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson wonders...

Should he take the initiative, go to the police, explain about Allison and her vision, tell them he suspects House is now a cult member? There is some solid proof. After all, House's blood does mark a spot in front of Reichenbach Falls.

_And how do you know this?_

_Allison said...Allison knows._

He could almost hear their derisive cackles. They would scoff at him, just like Cuddy did. They would tell him he needs to relax, settle down, assure him they have things well in hand. As far as he knows their leads haven't led to anywhere but dead ends.

Wilson wonders...

Why is Cuddy being so obstinate? After dropping Allison at her hotel, Wilson sat in his parked car and phoned his former ally in the good fight. She sounded rushed, breathless. Bill was waiting for her in the parking lot. They were going to dinner.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

It was her 'this better be good' tone and he could tell she would not be receptive to what he had discovered this afternoon.

He told her anyway.

She groused at him to stop chasing windmills and see Allison for what she really is: a shyster who is an expert at putting on a show, making weak minded people believe in her _mystical_ powers.

"Don't you think if she really had 'the sight' she would have picked the winning Powerball numbers a long time ago?" Cuddy asked.

"It doesn't work that way," Wilson countered.

"Oh, so now you're the expert on psychic phenomena."

"What could she gain by pulling a fast one?" Wilson's voice cracks. He winces and shakes his head before continuing. "How the hell would she benefit from that?"

"Publicity", Cuddy huffed. Wilson pictured her slinging her purse over her shoulder as she clicked her computer screen off. "It's what these people thrive on. Attention makes them feel impressive and important and more blessed than the rest of us."

Wilson knows Allison isn't like that.

He sits on the edge of his perfectly made bed in his bland, pristine room. Beside him, a pizza is cooling in its box. Why did he buy a large pie? Force of habit. Was he expecting House to suddenly bop in, flop down on the bed and help himself to three-quarters of it? Wilson lifts a sumptuous piece, stares it down, takes a bite, then tosses it back into the box.

He realizes with some regret that his appetite has taken flight. Morella's pizza is wonderful stuff and now most of it will go to waste. He sighs, closing the lid and considers taking a trek to the lobby. He can waste time there, trawling the fields of the internet, convincing himself he is mining for gold. But he no longer feels comfortable at the public console. Too many hungry eyes looking to horn in on his business.

So he takes the plunge, drives to Best Buy and purchases a laptop. The thing is small, nearly weightless in his hands as he lifts it from its box. With some odd kind of reverence, he sets it on his desk and plugs it in. How can such a compact toy possibly help him? People play games on these things, shop for porn and music and lunch on these things. But magic takes many forms. Perhaps its essence is in there, coursing through the chips and wires, metal and plastic.

Perhaps...

Suddenly feeling slightly peckish, he snags a room temperature slice from the pizza box and settles himself in front of the computer screen. Taking a chance, he Googles "Church Of the Rising Age" and is surprised to come up with an actual website for the cult. Nothing is ever this easy, he thinks, clicking the link and chewing his slice. A snowfall of crumbs lands on his dress pants. Absently, he brushes them off with the back of his hand, certain there must be a catch...

The website's introductory essay touts the achievements of Stefan, the Church's visionary leader. A skinny guy in his fifties, he wears a cherubic grin and a head of tousled, greying hair. His partner, a dowdy, matronly woman named Lois, stands by his side. It seems neither of them has a last name, but isn't that always the way with legends? And legends they are. These guys are doing important work, pounding 'Stefan's Writ' down the throats of the faithful.

The gallery of photos on the website shows the cult doing what they do best: recruiting the lost, the lonely, the...emotionally challenged. A good number of those recruits are shown listening to Stefan sermonizing, their eyes wide in rapt devotion.

Wilson peruses Stefan's writings and finds them self-serving and pompous. How can people take this stuff seriously? You would have to be in a seriously skewed state of mind to even consider following such prattle.

An image of House scarfing down dinner like an automaton flashes before him. _I don't want to talk to you. _The words are like acid, burning and scalding and _hurting_, like House is probably hurting...somewhere.

He sifts through the remainder of the site but finds nothing helpful. There is the address of the church, which he jots down in his notepad, a 'store', where one can purchase shirts emblazoned with the church insignia, a testimonial page where ecstatic church members relate how Stefan's words saved them from a life of hardship and misery.

Wilson drifts back to his search engine as he continues to wonder...

A few news sites link to stories of the church's questionable methods of recruitment. No one can prove any wrongdoing. Stefan and Lois obviously know how to keep on the law's good side.

The deeper he digs, the slimmer the pickings. He backspaces away from a dead link, returns to his search engine and ends up on someone's blog. It's a kid's page, a pre-teen to boot. She has adorned her blog with stars and moons and the occasional headshot of Zack Braff. Oh, great. Why would a kid's blog make mention of a religious cult?

_Watch and learn, Jimmy..._

Curiosity gets the better of him. He enters "Miranda's World" and finds her most recent entry is comprised almost entirely of photos. Here she is, pretty and prim, out for a sunny Sunday walk with the family. Her caption sets the scene:

_'We met some funny people down in the Village. They call themselves The Church of the Rising Age. Mom said me and my brother Scott shouldn't go near them, that they were 'some kind of coo coo nuts', but we asked for pictures anyway. This lady is Lois and her friend told me his name is D.G. They were nice.'_

Wilson gives the photo a solid scrutiny. It seems Lois could use a good night's sleep. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks are hollow. When was the last time she groomed that unruly mass of silver-black hair? Like an overgrown hedge, it sprouts in all directions, badly in need of clippers and a comb. Pretty little Miranda stands beside her, all shiny, braided and smiling. To her left is D.G., who is massive, his square-jaw complementing his square head. He is stiff, stone-faced, most likely looking forward to putting this photo opportunity behind him.

Wilson yawns, well aware the futility of the hunt is wearing him down. If House, the old House, the one with the caustic wit and Vicodin addled brain, could see him now, he would laugh until his sides hurt. But that wasn't happening, that wasn't-

His hand falls to his side, the remainder of his pizza slice drops to the carpet with a _thwap._ Shifting his chair closer to the desk, he leans forward , his nose almost touching the computer screen. _What's_ _that? _Just beyond D.G.'s shoulder, there is a nondescript figure, slightly hunched, his features a blur. His shirt is red, pants are white just like D.G's, just like Lois's. He is standing by a gated shop window which looks suspiciously like the front of Reichenbach Falls. Part of a cane or walking stick juts out from blurry guy's side, its tip stopping just shy of his foot.

"House." The name shoots from Wilson's lips like a magical mantra: _Alacazam!_ _Presto! Abracadab- _

_"House!"_ he pounds his fist against the desk again and again and again until tears spring to his eyes, until he is breathless.

He mutters, weeps, whines, his trembling fingers saving the photo inside the box of magic before shutting it down and pulling the plug. After jamming the machine under his arm, he fishes in his trouser pocket for his car keys and bolts out the door.


	30. The Road To Find Out

**A/N: **Thanks to all for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either. "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" belongs to the estate of Jim Croce.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her encouragement and help.

**-**30-

"The Road To Find Out"

They stroll hand in hand, like teens on a first date, Faulkner guiding her through the rooms of his Trenton apartment. He offers a bit of history here, an amusing anecdote there. They end up standing before the display case. The pewter figures breathe their welcome, the jewel encrusted sword glints and shimmers its greeting.

Lisa's fingers flow just shy of the glass and there is no need explain to her the significance of the sword. She knows. Her mouth falls open, a meek, sad sound makes its way out. Faulkner wonders if she might weep again.

But she just turns away from the collection and waits for him to lead her down the corridor.

"I'm pretty sure there are ghosts in these old walls." His tone is hushed, almost reverent as they enter the den. A muscle tics in his cheek as Lisa's fingers tighten around his. He is cool, composed, weaving his spell with ease. His eyes roam the book lined shelves, the mahogany desk, the formidable leather chair, as if these inanimate objects might come to life and deign to give away their secrets. "Sometimes there's a chill, a rustle of paper in the night. Now and then a book will take a tumble off a shelf without any provocation at all."

Lisa's gaze roams the room. Her brow creases as she purses her lips, as if silently daring the spirits to float through the tomes right now to prove Faulkner right.

"You don't believe, do you?" he asks.

She frowns and stumbles against the desk, like her bus just hit a pothole. "No. But Wilson does."

"Really?"

"He got a psychic to help find House."

"A psychic?" Faulkner is truly interested now. He releases her hand and folds his arms across his chest. "Why would an educated fellow seek out-"

"_She_ found him. Her name is Allison...something. Works for the Phoenix District Attorney's office. Can you believe law enforcement trusts in people like that for input? No wonder-"

The more she babbles the less Faulkner wants to hear. Mother had a psychic. Miss Millicent visited the house every Sunday. Young Bill used to listen to their sessions through his bedroom wall. One Sunday, Miss Millicent called him out before the session began, asking if he would like to observe, since he was so interested in eavesdropping. This amused Mother. But Millicent froze his blood, made his heartbeat trip and stutter. Those eyes were cool cerulean chips. They made a minesweep through his soul, saw through his subterfuge and masquerade. To Millicent's benefit, she kept this knowledge to herself and fortunately died in a car crash a year later.

The gods smiled then. But maybe not now...

Suddenly he doesn't feel so good. The cream sauce that blanketed his dinner is acquainting itself with the small amount of wine he drank. The pair form an unholy alliance and conspire to turn his stomach.

_Get to it, William. Get it done. _

He swallows against the burgeoning nausea. "And did this psychic 'see' anything?"

"What do you think?"

He scoffs as his stomach rolls over. Taking Lisa's hand again, he puts on a brave face as he leads her from the den into the living room. A Debussy etude floats from the speakers set on either side of the hearth. The fireplace is glowing, the flames snapping and crackling, and already Faulkner can see its magic at work. Lisa's gaze goes directly for it.

_Moth to flame, bee to begonia... _

Good. Very good. _Breathe in, breathe out. _Suddenly he feels much better.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

"Mmm,"

A bottle of Merlot waits patiently in the silver ice bucket on the coffee table. Two wine glasses stand at attention beside it. The flame is restless, reflecting scarlet and gold inside the wine, the colors jumping and dancing in anticipation of what is to come.

Seating himself on the sofa, Faulkner pours them both a glass, then pats the cushion next to him. But Cuddy is oblivious, the flames still holding her in their thrall.

"Come sit with me, Lisa."

She rubs her eyes like a sleepy child, then turns to face him. He pats the cushion again.

"Sit." This time it is more of a command than a request.

Something glints in her eyes: a hard light, sharp and unyielding. For a moment he thinks the game is lost, that she is going to tell him to go to hell while staggering out on those stiletto heels.

But she blinks...and all hint of fight is gone. _Presto, change-o, Alacazam_! She stumbles forward, accepts the helping hand he offers and chuckles drunkenly, flopping onto the sofa next to him.

"Merlot?" he asks, offering her a chilled, filled glass.

"No, I'd better not." She waves a hand at the drink but can't hide the indecision playing on her face. Finally she sighs and tells him decisively, "No. I have to work in the morning. How would it look for the Dean of Medicine to show up to her job hung over?"

"You're human." Faulkner sets the glass on the table. "You have frailties."

"Thank you for saying so but it's not really something I can freely admit without getting stepped on."

"Stress." He reaches with one finger to trace the fine lines around her eyes. She flinches slightly before giving him a tentative grin.

"You need to let it go for awhile...to relax."

"Easier said than done." One hand waves its half-hearted dismissal. "I've got an oncologist who believes a psychic from Arizona is going to miraculously find my missing diagnostician.

"Relax..."

She turns on him. "I _can't."_

Nonplussed, he asks, "Would you like some help?"

"Ah," Rubbing her fingers against her temple, she purses her lips and lets out a long breath. "I don't think I'm up for _that _tonight."

"I wasn't talking about sex."

"Oh?" A small, deep furrow creases her brow. She looks...disappointed.

"I'm talking about relaxing, letting everything go, tossing it all on the fire, letting it drift away."

Cuddy seems to consider this, resting her hands in her lap, tipping her head to one side, waiting for more.

"The music is lovely, the firelight so warm." He places two fingers against her cheek and guides her gaze, once more, toward the flickering flames. "Let yourself flow into that warmth until there is nothing else. Imagine that every trouble, every worry you have is swirling up... into blankness...melding with the stars, space...limitless..." he whispers, close to her ear. "Endless."

"Mmm." She blinks, sinks back against the cushions.

_Just a light trance, just enough to graze the grassy slopes, to set the ideas firmly in place._

"Picture the darkness, empty...deep, safe and warm. You're floating in it...drifting farther and farther away...from everything.

That lovely mouth falls open; her gaze is unfocused, distant. Far, far away.

_Just a little push..._

"Close your eyes..." He brushes his fingers over her brow, through her hair. "It feels good to rest. It feels wonderful...to just...let go..."

It doesn't take much more convincing to put her under. He can tell she is gone by the way her head nods and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

It is such a simple thing to plant an idea, so wonderfully, perversely easy.

Bill explains his plan to her between slow sips of wine: how she is to summon him immediately when Greg is found. It will be necessary and of vital importance for him to speak with Greg alone. It is her responsibility to see to this. There will be no interruptions, regardless of what anyone says, be it law enforcement, Dr. Gurand, or James Wilson. And Lisa will do anything..._anything_ to make sure Bill's way is the only way...

_...Bill's way is the only way. Bill's way is the only way. Bill's way is the only way..._

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The key is in the ignition. It dangles there, catching the glint of the streetlights, mocking him, daring him to turn it, to set the car in motion.

But Wilson is frozen. His hands are on set the wheel at two and ten. Placing them in position is the only progress he has made over the last five minutes.

He doesn't know where to go.

His new HP Pavilion laptop sits grey and silent on the passenger seat. It hasn't a clue where he should go either. Hell, it's done its job, leading him to a blurry photo of a guy clad in red and white, leaning on a cane, who may or may not be House.

_It's him._

Yeah, well, Wilson would bet his medical degree on it, but convincing anyone else might be tough.

Cuddy might have given him the benefit at one time. Not anymore.

Should he go to Allison? No, he has bothered her enough for one day. What about the police? Would they take his claim seriously? Doubtful. He knows what will happen if he shows them his find. Some detective sitting at desk strewn with newspapers, torn up lottery tickets and coffee cups, will glance at the photo, jot down a few notes on a clean sheet of paper, then shove the paper into a file folder. He will proceed to tell Wilson to get some sleep, that the police are on the case.

Should he put himself through it? He doesn't think he can, at least not tonight. It is already after ten. Weariness and frustration will most likely cause him to snap at someone, a someone with a badge and a barrelful of clout. Someone will get pissed off, throw House's case onto some back burner of the slop house of Sleuth Land. And Wilson will be worse off than he is now.

So he does what he realizes he has wanted to do from the moment blurry guy appeared on his screen. Twisting the ignition key, he mutters a few heartfelt, blackhearted epithets before setting off to pay a visit to The Church of the Rising Age.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is...Contemplating.

_It is probably true that you cannot tug on Superman's cape or spit into the wind, without some devastation befalling you_.

Damn! Alright. Then how 'bout pulling the mask off the old Lone Ranger?

_Shit, no, old man. You nuts? Haven't you been listening to the words of the song? Jim Croce was a sage for the Everyman. He knew what he was talking about. A lot of people who are close to death do, you know._

House meets many people in various stages of dying. Not one of them ever clued him in to the Meaning Of Life.

_There are all sorts of ways of becoming enlightened. Think hard. You're sure to come up with something._

Harumph! The cot squeals its complaint as he shifts onto his back. It is good to stare up at the moon through the slats in the blinds. The mighty transistor radio crackles and jabbers in his ear as he turns the wheel slowly with his thumb. In the time he has spent in this room, the radio has become his friend. Time goes by in fits and starts, and he can't seem to remember most of it. But the radio helps keep his mind 'here' instead of out 'there'. It spits out music and tells him stuff: news, the time, weather, baseball scores. All of it is interesting yet irrelevant at the same time.

The radio is all he has right now and he hopes the battery doesn't die. He couldn't very well ask Lois for another one; actually, he probably shouldn't even have this one but he found it fair and square. It was stowed behind the dresser in the corner, the one with warped drawers and tiny splinters sticking up like miniscule swords.

Sometimes a song begins, one he really likes, and suddenly the room grows darker and colder and the newscaster is blathering in his ear. His cheeks are wet and there is moisture in his stubble. He doesn't recall crying...

_But hell, there you go._

He is supposed to be contemplating, and he sure as hell is. He wears the Robe of Contemplation, which, he guesses, makes him real hot shit, gets him in good with Stefan's wrestling gods or whoever handles this sort of thing out there in the ether. The Robe is white, its hem laced with gold thread. Sometimes House moves nearer to the window and twists and turns the hem so that strands of moonshine play and dance amongst the gold. It looks really sparkly that way.

Occasionally he shakes his Vicodin vial, which he keeps tucked away deep inside the pocket of his robe. Have another? Don't mind if I do. When was the last one? Who knows? The pains in his scraped hands, on his tattered back, inside his ravaged thigh have left on an extended holiday and it's all because Master V has returned.

_What happened to the exercises Bill taught you?_

Oh, yeah, right. He contemplates this for a moment, then goes back to stare at the moonshine caressing the fabric of the Robe.

_So what have we learned?_

I have to pee.

_Ring the little bell. She'll come._

Later. He closes his eyes, sinks back into the moonlight.

_What. Have. We. Learned?_

Um...you don't tug on Superman's cape?

_Right..._

You never, ever spit into the wind?

_Good._

You do not pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger?

_Damn, you're good._

And you don't mess around with Bill.

_Jim._

No...it's Bill.

_Breathe._

Bill.

His insides go cold; the fingers of one hand tremble and fuss with the hem of his robe. The other lifts the transistor radio to his ear. Its speaker sends two sharp cracks zinging against his temple; the energy buzzes and stings like a lightning strike. Startled, he cries out, rears back, and flings the radio home to its dark abyss behind the ancient dresser. There is a clatter, a sputter...then nothing.

_Cursed_. He hides his heads in his hands as he squeezes his eyes shut as his fingers grind against his temples. _Cursed. _

_Wouldn't it be grand to make it all go away?_

sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry

His bladder is in a fighting mood, which only adds to his distress. So he reaches under his pillow and scrabbles past The Writ he is supposed to be contemplating to grab his nice copper bell. He holds it over his head and tinkles for a tinkle.

By the time Lois reaches him, he has managed to convince his conniving inner self that "You Don't Mess Around With Bill" is the title of the song in question.

No, you sure don't mess around with Bill. This is logic, pure and true.

How could it be otherwise?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The scarlet glow spills from the front window of the townhouse, spreading itself in a languorous pool over the front stoop. Inside the light, a design seems to float: an expertly drawn a circle of hands, a horizon, a sun. It is the church's insignia. Wilson remembers it from the homepage.

The place looks like a B-movie bordello, where some bit player gets his bloody comeuppance in front of a house of ill repute. That bit player's death sets the stage for the entire sordid tale. Pretty good, huh? Wilson muses that he may have missed his calling as a screenwriter.

Well, maybe not. A documentary film maker might be more up his alley, since his reality is ten times more skewed than anything he could ever dream up.

The HP Pavilion notebook under his arm suddenly feels heavy as a brick. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it. Perhaps he shouldn't be here at all. He should have gone to police. Those guys would have already been inside, diligently checking all the facts, ma'am. How could they not? A blurred photo and a psychic's say so would be enough to convince anyone of evil afoot.

Sure...and pigs enjoy doing the backstroke in heated pools of jelly.

He realizes without a centimeter of shame that he is afraid.

_Of what?_

Afraid that whatever is behind the door might prove him right, and that Allison really and truly knows what she is talking about.

Shadows drift like restless specters beyond the window. A faint chant rises up: unintelligible yet mesmerizing as it goes on...and on.

Wilson clenches his fist, brings it up to his face and stares at it like it is a foreign object. Reluctantly, he sends it off to knock on the door; three short raps against the wood.

The noise causes the shadows to congregate like startled animals. They mesh into one shapeless, headless mass before pulling apart to go their separate ways.

The door is opened by a tall, well put together brute with slicked back hair the color of chocolate pudding. His head is as square as his jaw; he looks absurd in his white pants and red Rising Age t- shirt "Yes?" The voice booms, as deep and sonorous as an ogre in a horror flick.

"I'd like to see Stefan," Wilson straightens his shoulders but still has to crane his neck to gawp at the ogre.

"I'm afraid that is not possible at this time." Ogre's brow creases as he gives Wilson a slow scrutiny. "My name is D.G. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I need to see Stefan."

D.G.'s lips twitch, like a ten-count is in progress in his head. "I handle Stefan's church business."

"So...you're his personal assistant?"

Something stirs in the big man's eyes, a snatch of impatience he has probably been trained to squelch. Behind him, a red shirted posse has formed.

"Is there something I-"

"I'm here about Gregory House," Wilson says, securing the laptop a little more firmly under his arm.

D.G.'s face goes as white as his trousers. Wilson didn't anticipate such an interesting reaction, but he'll take it.

Another simian brute steps up and whispers something into D.G.'s ear. The pair then freeze like matching bookends, staring at Wilson with big saucer-like eyes.

"So...can I come in?" Wilson asks.

House would have laughed, but Wilson can only manage a weak smirk as D.G. and his All-Star Band step away from the door to let him pass.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

D.G. leads Wilson into Stefan's inner sanctum. From the curious expressions on the faces of the faithful, Wilson surmises this place is off limits to them. It is special, lofty, most likely used for consultations with sinners and saints. The door is inordinately heavy, probably a half inch thick. It closes behind him with a solid_whump!,_ which startles him so badly, he nearly drops the laptop.

It wouldn't have mattered if it fell. The carpet, which is about as thick as the door, would have cushioned it from the shock. His feet sink into the pile, the same way his body sinks into the leather chair by Stefan's desk. He would just bet the room is soundproof.

_No one can hear you scream._

He swallows against the tightness in his throat and realizes he could use a drink. A cold one would be nice. He imagines sitting at Vito's Bar, captivated by the gold neon Budweiser sign in the window, his hands molding themselves around the frosty mug of beer. Its weight is comforting. Closing his eyes for a moment, he exhales softly. The scene soothes him.

But it is back to business. Tucking the image of Vito's away for another time, he takes a better look at Stefan's domain. Behind the desk are shelves lined with books, photos of wrestlers and three large jars of red pistachio nuts. A diploma is displayed above the topmost shelf, almost completely obscured by a framed picture of Hulk Hogan. To display yet not to display; to be prideful or hide your light. This, it seems, is Stefan's dilemma.

But the urge to analyze this nutcase with an odd 'thing' for wrestlers and pistachios is not something Wilson has time to pursue. He sets his laptop on the corner of the desk, opens it and turns it on.

A soft _whoosh_ causes him to flinch; a light breeze tickles his neck. He whips around to see Stefan, who like his photo, has that charming, boyish grin and an odd light in his eyes that makes him look just a little bit...off. He wears a long golden robe, gaudy enough that it might have been filched from Liberace's estate.

"Good evening." He grins. "I'm Stefan."

"James Wilson." Wilson rises to his feet and extends a hand, which Stefan ignores. "D.G. says you were looking for someone."

There is a lilt in his voice, a light questioning tone that folks use when they ask about your health or how your daffodils are blooming. It is courteous, but without depth or caring. In short, Stefan has no greater motive than to see Wilson out the door.

"Yes, I'm looking for a guy named Greg House. I thought he might be here."

Rubbing his chin, Stefan steals a few amused glances Wilson's way as he heads toward his desk. He grabs a handful of pistachios from the jar on his shelf , then pulls his chair out and sits. "Let me give you a quick lesson in how we work here, Mr..."

"_Doctor_ Wilson."

"A doctor! Well..." Stefan mutters something to himself, chuckles and drops his pistachios before him. "That _is _impressive."

"Does the name Greg House ring a bell?" He should have brought a real photo or _The Ledger. _Where is his mind?

"Ring a bell, dingalingaling." With a giggle, he sets to work, forming two circles with the collection of nuts. "People come to me for many reasons, Doctor. Sometimes they are looking for hope, other times they're looking for a way out of a bad situation, and then there are those who actually believe in what we stand for."

"You haven't answered my question."

Stefan's head jerks up, his eyes dark with irritation. "Listen and learn..._Doctor. _When you went to medical school did all your answers fall in your lap the moment you asked them? No, of course not. You had to work, to dig, to study to find what you needed to know."

Wilson swivels the laptop so the screen faces Stefan. "That man over by the building looks very much like my friend. He is wearing the colors of your church. Maybe you can confirm that my suspicions are correct. That he has joined up with you."

"Why should I?" Stefan goes back to playing with the pistachios.

"What?"

"If your friend joined us, he did so by his own design." Stefan takes a perfunctory glance at the screen, sniffs, then shapes the nuts into a square. "And if he wants to leave us, he is free to do so. No one is a prisoner in the Church of the Rising Age."

"So...he's here."

"I can't confirm this, Doctor. Don't make me go against the tenets of my church."

Wilson is silent as he closes down his computer. He considers what he has been told as he tucks the machine under his arm

"Why did you agree to see me?" he asks sharply.

"You were in need. Why would I not at least try to offer some comfort?"

"You offer comfort but you refuse to help me."

"This is how life works sometimes, Doctor. He grins. "You take what you can get and use it wisely."

"Mind if I have a look around?"

"That's not necessary, Doctor. After all, this is not your domain. In fact, if you must know, you have disrupted our evening. You are interfering with our lives. But I understand your worry. Rest assured, if your friend is with us, he is in good hands." Smiling sweetly, Stefan gathers up the pistachios, then stands and turns, letting them clink, one at a time, into the jar. "If you are interested in our church, by all means take some literature on the way out. And please go to our website where you can download the complete Writ as a PDF file. I'm sure it will enlighten you."

Wilson shoots Stefan a glare, wanting to get a rise out of him, wanting him to seethe with anger and lash out that 'yes, your friend is here, just try to find him'. It is a ploy, not a bad one. If it works, Wilson will know for sure. At least then he will know...

But after a few moments, his shoulders slump. Exhaustion sets in. All he wants is a simple answer but Stefan is made of sturdier stock. He takes the challenge, meets Wilson's look with one that is amiable, joyous, proof he everyone's best pal.

"Please." Wilson hates the sour taste of fear and surrender on the back of his tongue. "I need to know," he begs softly. "just tell me if he's okay."

The corners of Stefan's lips tremble before his mouth widens into a most glorious grin. "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson." He snuffles out a little chuckle. "But I really don't know what you're talking about."


	31. The Dream Is Over

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for her encouragement and help.

**-31-**

"The Dream Is Over"

The dream is a sign.

There is no other way of looking at it. Love, adoration and the confirmation that what she is doing is good and right had been wrapped with painstaking care, like the most precious of gifts: so beautiful, with all those shimmering bows, that shiny silver paper.

In her sleep she twitched and moaned, not wanting to lose the beauty, the heat, the glow. But the dream had a plan and a purpose, unfolding with delicate precision, one edge, one corner at a time.

The Unisphere, symbol of 1964 World's Fair, had been her throne. She sat smiling and waving atop the immense steel globe that signified peace and brotherhood. Far below, the masses cheered. These people, this lovely, lovely crowd had come from all over the world to offer their love and support. Covering every inch of the park's grassy expanse, their numbers were too great to even estimate.

In the distance, a shadowy figure swung from a tree, spinning, dangling, tethered to a gnarled branch by the rope around its neck. Around and around and around it went, like a ghoul on a carnival ride.

When Lois wakes, she realizes the stiff, spinning figure was Stefan and the crowd was her own faithful minions, wishing her well.

Sighing, she scratches her head as she treads to the bathroom. The dream really was lovely. She will keep it with her today, stow it away in a mental cubicle to summon when she needs a boost.

After washing and dressing, she opens Greg's door a crack and peers into his room. She finds him half sitting, half lying on the cot. His mouth is agape, head inclined back on the pillow that is bunched up against the windowsill. Is the sky that enthralling? _No._ _He must have been staring at the moon all night, talking, weeping, chattering to it, confiding in it. _Now he is snoring, probably exhausted from his Contemplating. His legs are splayed, arms limp at his sides. If Lois didn't know better she would say he had been out on a bender. Locked in this Contemplation Room for the past ten hours has probably done nothing to improve his state of mind.

Closing the door softly, she sighs again and shrugs. After today Greg will be better off and so will she.

In the kitchen she busies herself planning breakfast. Stefan never skimps on quality when it comes to his own comforts. The skillet she finds on the stove is a heavy, sturdy thing, with a copper bottom for more even heat distribution. Stefan fancies himself a real gourmet. It is nice to know the church's resources have provided him with top of the line cookware.

With a jolt, Lois realizes she has been staring into the pan too long. This behavior is unacceptable. Today is special, life altering. She has too much to do. This is no time to be wallowing in a mire of bitterness.

In the refrigerator are eggs, butter, ham, onions and milk: everything she needs to make omelets for herself and Greg. She removes the ingredients, sets them on the counter, and gives them a solid once over. The breakfast will be a celebration of their combined good fortune. Greg will soon see Bill again and eat burgers until he bursts, while she will take her much deserved reward and disappear, maybe to Vermont...or somewhere else. Twenty thousand dollars will give her a lot of freedom to decide. She might even change her name-

"I hope you're not planning on cooking that food, Lois."

She gasps; her heart lurches as her palms press hard against the counter. Now is when she is supposed to turn, to face him. She would rather not but she doesn't have a choice...

_Calm yourself, calm down_.

"Were you perhaps thinking of preparing omelets for you and your charge?"

Their eyes lock, cold fingers flex in the center of her chest, brushing against her vitals, her heart, her lungs, before crabwalking through her entrails. She runs a hand through her bushy hair, making a silent prayer to the gods to help her. Just this once...

"I'm sure you realize that this," Stefan waggles a finger at the foodstuff, "would not be an acceptable post-Contemplation breakfast, Lois" Smirking, he takes two steps toward her. Over his shoulder she sees D.G. roaming through the living room. "Maybe you're just...rearranging the contents of the fridge?"

So intent had she been on her thoughts and the dream, she never heard the front door open.

_Never had a chance...think fast, think fast..._

So she puts her mind to work, and her words tumble from her lips like a dealer tossing cards on a poker table. "He had a bad night, Stefan. Sometimes comfort food-"

"Comfort food?"

"Yes." She compresses her lips and shoots him a wicked glare. "It didn't go so well. We're going to need another night."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I am not."

Suddenly he guffaws so loudly, D.G. stops his restless wandering to poke his head inside the kitchen. "This'll kill you, Lois." Stefan rubs a moist eye. He takes two leisurely strolls around the table, like he is the last one standing in Musical Chairs. "You know what happened to me just a few hours ago?"

She doesn't want to know. Whatever this new wrinkle is, Lois is sure it couldn't be good.

"I had a visitor," he announces triumphantly.

"Oh?"

"A friend of your friend." Stefan raises a brow. "A doctor named Wilson."

_Wilson_. Lois recalls the name from _The Ledger_ article. He is head of oncology at that New Jersey hospital and is supposedly Greg's best friend.

"Greg mentioned him once," Lois says with a pensive tilt of her head. "between talking about Bill."

"I don't care about that, Lois." Stefan stops in his tracks, his tone suddenly terse and irate. "I want to know how Wilson managed to equate Greg's disappearance with the church."

"How would I know?" She is genuinely puzzled.

"Somehow this is your fault." He circles the table again and shakes an accusing finger her way. "You did something wrong."

Her puzzlement is overtaken by a fiery little niggle in her gut. "How dare you."

"You're the only one who's been actively involved with Greg." The color of his cheeks reminds Lois of a ripe cartoon tomato ready to burst. "You spoil him, treat him like a child. It is not beyond the realm of possibility to think maybe you called Wilson, anonymously, gave him a little clue where he might find his friend."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I wouldn't put anything past you, Lois." His palm connects with the back of a chair, causing it to slam into the table. "I want him out of this church today. He is a lost cause."

"No."

"Do not defy me."

"The fourth quatrain of Chapter Twelve of the Writ states, 'The one who leads a pilgrim to Contemplate must see the process through to a positive conclusion.' Your words, Stefan."

Defeat darkens his eyes. "Where is he?"

"Asleep."

"He should be awake, preparing for morning prayers."

"I told you, he had a bad ni-"

But Stefan is already out of the kitchen, tramping through the living room and down the corridor toward the back bedroom.

"Leave him be, Stefan." The crush of the meaty hand on her shoulder sets her anger ablaze. She stands still as stone and turns her head to meet the steely gaze of D.G. "Keep your hands off me," Her growl is low and threatening. "I will not be strong armed into doing _his _bidding."

She manages to stare D.G. down. It is not difficult. The goon thinks she is a witch and she has done nothing to persuade him otherwise. The weight is removed and she lumbers on, catching up with Stefan as he pushes open the bedroom door.

Her mind races furlongs ahead but she slows it down by inhaling deeply and clenching her fists. The next few moments are key. If she handles this right, Stefan will take D.G., return to the church and let her get on with her plans.

_But these are fate's plans, not yours. You are in the hands of the gods. Do not anger them or tempt them into finding another more worthy of their gifts._

She must tread softly.

Stefan stands by the bed. Occasionally he will tilt his head and mutter something under his breath. A prayer? A curse? Lois steps furtively behind him before taking two small steps to his side.

Greg snores.

"I was thinking," Lois smiles softly and touches Stefan's arm. "...reminiscing. Old people do that. It's what keeps us young."

No reaction. He is stone faced, thin-lipped.

"We had a goal. We wanted to help the less fortunate and the less enlightened seek a righteous path. Remember those days?"

He maintains his silence but some small spark of memory lights his gaze. He could never forget that heady time of planning and seeking the Way. His eloquence and the pairing of their ideas lit a fire, which was now down to its final embers. Soon it would be nothing more than ashes in the wind.

"Let's help this pilgrim, Stefan," she waves a hand at House. "Show him how compassionate we can be."

Greg takes that moment to snort in his sleep, a most appropriate mocking remark.

With arms folded, his back as stick straight as a Gestapo Guard, Stefan turns on his heel. "Do what you can to fix this situation, Lois. You have until midnight."

The gods smile as Stefan leaves the room, as Lois closes her eyes. She waits for the front door to close, then takes a chance, allowing herself to smile along with them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy breezes through the morning in a delightfully delicate haze. By rights she should be muzzy headed, downing Advil on the sly to get through the day. But hung over she is not. In fact she feels better today than usual. Could it have something to do with the company she kept last night?

She wonders...

Floating through the reception area, she signs a requisition form, compliments Nurse Addie on her new hairstyle, greets the mailman and tickles a wide-eyed little girl under the chin. Humming a Debussy etude she heard somewhere, she heads toward her office, wondering what the rest of the morning might bring. Her answer greets her through the office window, causing her to quickly lose her smile.

Wilson sits in the high backed chair by her desk. His laptop is open. He is hunched over the keys, seemingly intent on the image on the screen.

Cuddy doesn't like this, she feels uncomfortable, put upon. What is that on the screen? She peers through the window in an effort to prepare herself for Wilson's story of a wild goose chase. That charlatan put him up to whatever 'this' is.

What would Bill do? After all, Bill's way is the right way.

The thought of Bill makes her lightheaded. She attempts to recall their evening together but much of it is a blur. She remembers the wine...

Her palm grows moist against the glass.

...the wine and the laughter, lovely blaze of the fireplace, and Bill's eyes. Dark eyes meeting hers, looking at her, inside of her like he has access to every secret, every sin.

_Relax..._

She shudders, spooked. Her hand falls to her side and she rubs her palm against her skirt as she glares at the back of Wilson's head. With the power of a flame meeting a gas line, her anger flares, roils and rages, causing her world to explode in billows of fiery cherry red.

_Relax,_ the inner voice croons over and over, until eventually she does.

Sure, Wilson might have fallen for that Phoenix shyster's shtick but Cuddy has not, and refuses to even consider it. She will be damned if she's going to be taken in by the word of someone who sees ghosts and plays with Ouija Boards.

She primes herself before entering the office, preparing her trademark 'in control' smile and affixing it to her face. Pushing open the door she says, "James?" Her footfalls are purposeful as she heads toward the desk.

He turns toward her and the look on his face stops her cold. She has no doubt his red-rimmed eyes will haunt her sleep. Those usually ruddy cheeks are now dark with an overnight harvest of stubble. His Van Heusen shirt is a wrinkled mess. Slept in? Possibly. His untied tie hangs limp and defeated down his shirt front. Has he brushed his hair today? What about his teeth? Any soap used at all? She wrinkles her nose as she moves a centimeter closer to him. No, probably not.

Wilson doesn't speak, just looks at her with those eyes filled with hurt and worry and...who knows what else.

"What's that on the screen, James?"

His stare commands her to look for herself.

It is a trio: a young girl, a big moose of a guy and a woman with a shock of wild bushy hair. But it is not these folks she is supposed to be concerned with, is it? Behind them a blurred figure stands gazing into a shop window, affecting a sad, familiar slouch.

"_House"_, she gasps and places a trembling hand to her lips.

"So...you see him too." He emits a mirthless chuckle. "Downhearted stance, that itty bitty hint of cane. Who else can it be?"

"Where is this, where did you find it?"

"Little girl's blog. Miranda goes for a walk down in Greenwich Village with the family, meets up with the Church of the Rising Age on a Sunday afternoon."

"Church?"

"We think House has joined a cult."

"We?"

"Me..." He jabs a thumb at his chest. "...and Allison. We."

Allison again. Cuddy folds her arms across her chest and shakes her head at the absurdity of the idea. "House would never do such a thing."

"House would never down his food like an automaton." Wilson ticks off each point on the fingers of one hand. "House would never run away on a whim. House would never call his therapist his 'best friend'. House would never make an art project out of William Faulkner novels-"

Again, Cuddy's anger ebbs and flows. Hanging her head, she rounds her desk and falls into her chair.

Wilson continues, "I went to the police early this morning at about ohhhh, one A.M. It was right after I paid a visit to the church."

"You went to the church alone?"

He throws her a caustic grin. "You were otherwise engaged."

Ignoring the snipe, she goes on. "What about your all-knowing friend?"

"Allison was with her family. She didn't need to be put through the insanity I experienced dealing with this guy Stefan and his cult "

"What...happened?"

"Stefan doesn't actually deny seeing House." Wilson shrugs, causing his shoulders to slump even more. "But he took the fifth. Told me if someone wants to join their little coven then the gods dumped them there, that it's not my business."

"So that's when you went to the police?"

"The detective didn't seem overly interested. Said he'll send a car around to the church today to 'check things out'." Wilson rubs his face. "I told him there is nothing to check out unless they can get a search warrant."

"A search warrant?"

Fixing her with a despondent look, Wilson says, "You're awfully calm about this whole thing. Out dining and drinking with Faulkner, the guy House, in his own skewed way, blames for what's happening right now-"

"Don't say that, James." Her anger is like a noxious, roiling witches brew. "Bill is-"

"Don't you care?" He clamps the armrests, pushes himself to his feet and glares at her.

"Of course I care."

"The prove it. Help me out. We need to pay another visit to the police."

"We've already been there. You just went-"

"And it did nothing. _Nothing. _Who am I? A lowly oncologist. You are the Dean of Medicine at a respected New Jersey hospital. If you show up again, they might actually stop guzzling their coffee to listen to you."

"They're doing their best, James," Her tone is calm and even. It would be so easy to lose it, to just throw him out of the office. But no. She can handle this. "Bill says-"

"Don't. Just...don't." Wilson's jaw works as he puts up his hand. "_He_ is trouble."

"Bill is a brilliant man." Her voice is too loud, her tone too sharp, too defensive. She has the sudden urge to claw at Wilson's face over and over until the skin is in tatters and his cheeks seep blood. "He has been a great help getting me through this."

"Yeah, he's great, super, wonderful." Wilson's eyes narrow. "Did you know that while he was busy 'getting you through this', the hotline was disconnected because of too many crank calls?"

"I...knew that," she tells him meekly.

"A waste of time, they said. "There are other, more efficient ways of picking up clues, they said." Head bowed, he steadies himself by gripping the edge of the desk.

Cuddy searches her personal archives for a tone of compassion. "Why don't you take the day off, James? Get some sleep."

"Get out of your hair, you mean?" He shuts down the laptop, closes the lid.

"Why are you being like this?" she asks.

"Something's up with you." His tone is hard, eyes probing. "It's like you're off in a fog somewhere."

She presses her lips together, then gestures at the computer. "That's nice. Is it new?"

"Yeah." He grabs the laptop as he rises to his feet. "I like how you pay attention to the real important stuff, Lisa."

"I was just saying-"

"Get your head out of the clouds. I feel like Allison is more concerned with finding House than you are."

"Feather in her cap," she mumbles. "Feather in her cap."

He shakes his head and heads for the door. "I'll rearrange my schedule, then I'll take the day. Maybe if I offer some cop enough cash, he'll take a ride over to the church with me."

A flood of relief washes over her as she brings up her daily planner on the PC.

"Lisa?"

Startled, she jerks her head up. "What?"

"Will you let me know if you hear anything?" he asks, pausing with his palm against the door.

"Sure, yes. Of course."

When he finally leaves, she sits for a moment and stares out the window, wondering why she feels like a weight has been lifted, that the clouds have parted and the sun is shining through again.

_Something's wrong with me_, she thinks.

And then the phone rings.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson would rather not rearrange his schedule. Regardless of what insanity might be going on in his world, there are others who depend on him to keep breath in their bodies.

Seated at his desk, he flips through a pile of folders. The names on their tabs are familiar, like distant relatives in an address book. Three of the patients have little chance of survival. Lymphoma, brain tumor, kidney cancer. Nasty, insidious and terminal. Moe, Larry and Curly. _Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk! _He can't help spit out a terribly inappropriate laugh, which provides him with not one bit of relief from his misery, just a solid ache in his gut.

He opens the first folder before glancing at his phone, before seeing the red light wink at him like a streetwalker.

_Maybe it's House_. The idea has played with him all week, anytime the phone rings, he jumps, hoping and wishing that maybe...just maybe this time...

Shit. That eternal optimism will shorten his lifespan. Disappointment will do him in.

The longer he waits, the more that dastardly sense of hope rises. So he gives in, lifts the phone to his ear and plays back his messages. One is from Dr. Ianucci in Boston General, hoping for a consult. The next is from Sara Ann, the waitress at Vito's asking him out to dinner on Friday. If life was business as usual, he would have accepted the offer and contemplated the various ways he might hide the date from House, which wouldn't have worked because House would know. House always knows. He has that damn sixth sense that enables him to sniff out a woman's intervention in the life of James Wilson at one hundred paces and...

...the last message is chattering in his ear. Something about House in an apartment on 52nd Street.

He stops. Everything. He is suddenly 'Wil-son', a mummified museum artifact to be studied and analyzed eons in the future. The slim metal plate below the display will read, "Oncologist in the throes of hope, shock and What the Fuck!"

Gasping like a man pulled from the brink of drowning, he finds his breath, his mobility, and manages to replay the message: _"Hello, Dr. Wilson. My name is Lois and I am the co-founder of The Church of the Rising Age. Your friend, Dr. House,_ _has been with us for the past few days and now I feel it is time for him to return to his friends and his work. Even though he was 'sent' to us, I am convinced this is not the life for him._

_He is indeed a troubled soul who needs help. I am hoping you might provide it for him. _

_I am sorry I did not find you in. I hope to have better luck contacting Dr. Lisa Cuddy. If you receive this message this morning, please pick your friend up at this address-"_

Wilson scrabbles for a pen, and frantically scratches the address on the back of a MasterCard bill. He clicks off the message, punches in Cuddy's extension, which connects him to her voicemail. Trying her cell phone gets him the same result.

No doubt she is already on her way to collect House, with Faulkner riding shotgun. Wilson knows he needs to get to New York...fast. But he can't do this alone. So he brings up the contact list on his cell, dialing the only true ally he has had on this strange, twisted journey.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Ferris wheel slows to a stop, allowing three excited Dubois children on. They squeal as they snuggle beside each other on the seat, as the bored looking guy with the brightly colored suspenders secures them in. Forcing a grin, he bangs on the side of the car with the flat of his palm and off they go.

The experience wouldn't be nearly as exciting if this were a ride in the center of the Arizona State Fair. No, but a Ferris wheel inside a toy store is truly an extraordinary find!

This is the surprise Allison and Joe had been saving it for the last day of the vacation. Joe read in the _Frommer's Guide to New York _all about the Toys R Us store in the middle of Times Square, how there were three floors of toys and stuffed animals and Legos and games.

And a Ferris wheel.

Allison is pleased they are here but distraught about Dr. House, her knight, the 'man of her dreams'. She wanted to see this through, to be able to give the extraordinary experience some closure. But it is not to be. She chuckles sadly and Joe puts his arm around her shoulder. He pulls her close. She enjoys the pure clean smell of him, the hard lean line of his body so warm against hers. Standing behind the balustrade, they smile, watching their children laugh, rising up, up over the shoppers and the colorful, winking lights of the store. The seats continue their climb and now she spies Dead Kid and Alex seated side by side. They are stone faced, unified in cold silence, their skin grey as tombstones. Two pair of skeletal hands grab the bar and hold on tight.

Their presence holds a warning.

A vision flashes: a trickle of red against a field of white, a silvery glint and scarlet stones that wink and gleam and radiate power and heat.

The lights of the Ferris wheel swim and solidify, causing Allison to blink hard as the noise and the music tumble around her again. She rubs her brow and turns to see Joe giving her that knowing 'here we go again' look as her phone rings.


	32. Closing In

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her encouragement and help.

**-32-**

"Closing In"

He stands and watches and waits, and cannot believe his good fortune. Well, actually he can. Luck has been a stalwart friend, pulling him out of some major stickety wickets in his time. So why not now?

Johnny commented to him once about the Faulkner luck. "Bill, you are the only person I know who can step in shit and still keep the shine on those shoes."

Crass but true. But it is not as if Johnny hasn't benefited from the Faulkner good fortune. By rights Johnny should be in jail for life. Shooting a renowned diagnostician at point blank range can garner severe consequences - if you're caught.

But, as usual, luck was in Johnny's corner. Faulkner put it there.

Luck takes good care of Faulkner. It appreciates his reciprocal respect, treating him much like women do, the ones who consider him mysterious and charming. He thinks of Dorie...of Lisa.

Today his old pal luck was a sneaky devil, bopping by unannounced but not unwelcome.

Wednesday afternoons usually find Faulkner padding around his Trenton apartment, tending to paperwork, maybe settling in with an adult movie. But this Wednesday, Dominic Enzo requested a rare mid-week appointment at Faulkner's Manhattan office. A wealthy, middle-aged paraplegic, Enzo had been under Faulkner's care years ago for phantom pain. On occasion, he gets the yen to yammer and vent, and Faulkner indulges him. For one hundred twenty five dollars an hour, Faulkner is happy to oblige.

Dominic's need for conversation on this particular Wednesday turned out to be a mighty wonderful thing; it brought Faulkner to Manhattan. From there things just kept getting better. Lisa's call came at the perfect time, just as his hour with Enzo was squeaking to a close. Now, amazingly, he finds himself on East 52nd, where he stands, watches and waits outside the very place Greg is holed up.

If luck were a lady he would bedeck her in diamonds.

On a whim, Faulkner decided to take the jewel encrusted sword with him to the city. Now he wonders if he might not possess a bit of the old sixth sense. Had some psychic ability been bestowed upon him along with his other gifts?

It is certainly possible. Why would he decide to bring the sword along to Enzo's appointment, unless somewhere in his psyche...he knew?

The sword is another ally in this endgame, giving him an edge, a power over his prey. _Nice. _Secured beneath his arm, it is encased in a velvet sheath embellished with a dusting of rhinestones. He enjoys the solid weight of it. Its form seems to meld with his, adding to his strength.

He sniffs the air, enjoying how the smells intermingle: the heat, diesel fumes, auto exhaust, cheap cologne, fresh bread. Fresh meat.

He smiles.

Despite the rising humidity, Dr. William Faulkner is cool and clean in his tan dress shirt, brown tie and black trousers. The sublime portrait of the patient man, he stands and waits just a few feet from the entrance of the building where Gregory House also waits...

A few hours ago, Lisa called him with the news, hissing the Fifty Second street address through the earpiece of his cell. She had been breathless, excited, urging him to hurry.

The memory of Lisa's exhilaration rouses him. Sadly, there is nothing he can do about that pleasant little stickety wicket now.

Before everything goes topsy-turvy, before the carousel spins out of control, he is hoping for a few quiet moments with her. It would be to wise to make sure the suggestion from last night holds. He has little doubt it will but still-

_What the hell?_

Startled, Faulkner is wrenched from his reverie by a ticklish feeling on the nape of his neck. He whips around, noticing with some irritation that the woman by the streetlamp is staring at him. The look is by no means seductive or suggestive. It is...curious, probing. Her blond hair frames a heart-shaped face, those green eyes are piercing, accusatory. When she tilts her head they flash gold, like she is some scheming temptress or...a witch. Her shirt and shorts are pastel colored, light and summery, perfect for the sultry June weather. But her purse is deep blue. It doesn't match. She clasps it in front of her, defensively; she is not afraid, just on her guard.

_And suddenly he thinks-_

-she knows him, knows all about him, what he has done, what he will do.

Perhaps she even knows about Johnny.

A trickle of sweat forms at the top of his spine and takes a slow, uneven trek down his back.

_Oh, Billy, you let your imagination run away with you all the time. _

He inhales, exhales, attempts to stare her down but it doesn't work. Her gaze becomes that much more intense as her grip tightens around her bag. If he didn't have to wait for Lisa, he would hustle upstairs, find Greg himself and get the job done.

_Patience._

A van squeals to a stop at the curb, its white surface coated with a grey patina of city grime. Across its side, bold red letters scream, "_The Ledger: Your News Is Our News". _The passenger door swings open and a slim young man in designer jeans, brown suede boots and a blue button down shirt springs onto the sidewalk. Over his shoulder he carries a square black box that looks like a tape recorder. He peers through the van's windshield and waves impatiently at the driver. With some effort, a portly, older black man climbs out, then slowly rounds the front of the van to meet his partner. Around the driver's neck is a camera, a top of the line Nikon from the looks of it.

This is serious. _This_ is interesting.

The blond woman is not fazed by the new arrivals. She continues to stare at Faulkner, even as a police car whoops its siren once and parks across the street. Two male officers, one as powerfully built as a weightlifter, the other short and lithe as a jockey, emerge from the car and head toward the building.

Suddenly the air is ripe with the stench of something aberrant, something sinful. Trouble never fails to fascinate. Passersby slow their pace as they take in the scene. They know something is going down. A gaggle of curious stragglers with too much time on their hands jabber to each other as they line the curb to watch the show.

Someone is running, the sound of heels scritch against the concrete, the crowd murmurs, the officers turn to see...

...Cuddy, hustling along as best she can in those shoes. She stumbles twice but manages to regain her balance before hurrying on.

"Bill!" She waves at him, then at the police who have just reached the doorway.

The whir and click of a camera assault Faulkner at the same time. The guys from _The Ledger_ van are hard at work, recording the sights and sounds of what is sure to be the lead story of the next issue.

_How did they know? Who gave them the scoop?_

"Officer..." Cuddy gasps, her breath escaping her in hitches and starts. Wincing, she presses a hand to her side, and hunches forward as if in pain. "I'm sorry...officer? She takes two stumbling steps toward them but Faulkner is there, gripping her arm, keeping her steady.

"Ma'am?"

"I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy...Dean of Medicine...Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital." She scrabbles through her purse, then thrusts her I.D. at them with a trembling hand. "Are you...here...regarding Gregory House?"

"Yes, ma'am." The shorter of the two cops, whose name tag reads, "Bocelli", replies while looking her over, His attempt to quickly turn his leer into a lopsided grin is woefully ineffectual. "We, uh...received a call from a Dr. Wilson from Princeton-Plainsboro asking us to meet him here." He jabs a finger Faulkner. "That you?"

"No," Faulkner says. "I-"

"This is Dr. Faulkner, Dr. House's therapist." Lisa's eyes flash as she folds her arms over her chest and takes a step forward, finding the way back to her old self. "It is of vital importance that he meets with Dr. House _alone_ before anyone else is permitted in that apartment."

_Good. Very good, Lisa..._

"Why is that?"

"Before he ran off, Dr. House was in a precarious state of mind," Faulkner interjects. He crafts a tone of confidence, strength and great compassion. "He was...delusional. For you gentleman to simply barge into that apartment might set him off in ways that could scar him...for life-"

Bocelli raises his eyes, sending a silent communiqué to his Jolly Green Giant of a partner. "I see-"

"Excuse me-"

All eyes turn toward the blond woman, now standing just outside their little circle.

"My name is Allison Dubois. I work for the District Attorney's office in Phoenix, Arizona." She produces her I.D, to the officers with a hand much steadier than Cuddy's was. "I've been helping Dr. Wilson look for Dr. House."

"Yeah?" The big cop tilts his head. "And why are you involved with something so far out of your jurisdiction?"

"It's a long story and I could tell it to you now but that would be wasting valuable time-"

Cuddy scoffs. "She's a shyster and a charlatan who has Dr.Wilson wrapped around her little finger. Claims she's a _psychic!_" Her face has gone the color of the lettering on _The Ledger_ van. A vein throbs in the center of her brow. She stamps her foot as her fingers clench.

The camera goes _clickety, clickety whir._

Allison disregards the outburst. "We need to wait for Dr. Wilson to arrive before we go upstairs."

Faulkner is not pleased with how this strange woman is raining on his parade. She has a chilly confidence about her, causing his temples to throb and his heart to beat like the drums of a tribal war council. Sweat pops out on his brow, above his upper lip and under his arms. The weighty comfort of the sword now seems unwieldy and cumbersome. "Why is that, Ms...?"

"Dubois." Allison's gaze locks firmly on his.

He doesn't like her eyes. They make him want to slink away to somewhere dark and quiet. Somewhere he can regain his suddenly precarious footing.

"Because..._Doctor_," she continues, "even before the phone call, Dr. Wilson was the one who figured out that Dr. House joined up with these people."

"How could he have known?"

"He_did _know, Bill," Cuddy says in a hushed tone. "At least he had a very good idea. He went to the church to confront-"

"That's enough," Faulkner barks as he mops his brow with his sleeve. "We are wasting time here. I need to see my patient."

"Ma'am," Bocelli smiles crookedly at Cuddy, hooking his thumbs through his belt. "we really should get up there and check out what's going on."

Blondie looks like she doesn't know quite what to do.

_Good, very good_.

"Ten minutes," Allison blurts out.

"Ma'am..." The taller cop gives an exasperated shake of his head.

"Please, it's important."

The ball is in Faulkner's court. He is so close. So close. "Why, Ms. Dubois?"

Allison turns on him, as if she has been waiting for this moment to pounce.

"Because," She gifts him with a sardonic grin, "James Wilson has every right to be here for this. After all, he is Gregory House's best friend."

_Clickety, clickety, whir!_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------_

Wilson can't really blame the guy. The woman _is_ beautiful. Tawny haired, her skin a lovely, sun kissed brown. She smiles like a cherub in love. Wilson wishes the guy luck, but still...

His fists pounds the horn. Again.

The parking garage guy barely looks up. He has abandoned the cashier window and is involved in a languorous chat with the beauty in the tan Lexus. His fingers caress the door handle as he leans over; his face is kissing distance from hers.

At any other time this might be semi-titillating. But today House is on the fifth floor of the building just around the corner, Apartment B-5. Waiting waiting.

Wilson pounds the horn again as his cell phone rings. Wrenching the thing from his pocket, he stows the urge to wing it at the head of Casanova. Instead he presses it to his ear. "What?"

"James, they're not going to wait much longer. Ten minutes...tops."

"I'm doing the best I can," he hisses, suddenly aware of what needs to be done. He flips the phone shut, then checks the contents of his wallet. Finding what he needs, he pushes himself out of the Volvo, slams the door and approaches Lover Boy.

"Hey," Wilson interrupts the couple's quiet murmurs. "Does anyone work in this place?"

"I'm at lunch. Murphy be right back."

"I need you to park my car."

"I said, Murphy be-"

"One hundred dollars," In Wilson's palm is the Volvo's key and the greenback. "Take your girl to lunch with you."

"Ah," Casanova chuckles, reaching for the loot. But Wilson snatches it back and jabs his finger at the guy.

"I want a receipt. Now."

"Murphy be-"

"_Now!"_

The guy fixes Wilson with a sneer as he snatches the money and the key. Without further discussion, he returns to his booth and, in a moment, Wilson is handed his ticket. Mumbling something about safe sex, Wilson races out of the garage, his heart pounding a Buddy Rich drum break against his ribs. Suddenly he doesn't remember which way to go. Pausing to catch his breath, he struggles to get his bearings, his head whipping this way and that. There? No, there! Up the block, to the right, he spies the back end of the grime covered_Ledger_ van he saw earlier. The fog in his head dissipates and he is soaring down the sidewalk, praying he is not too late to join the party.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

When House was a boy, waiting was as much a part of life as eating, sleeping and going to school. Moving from military base to military base required he be patient, a good boy. If he didn't ask too many questions and did as he was told, he would be rewarded with a new book. So he would wait, sitting on a cardboard box or the shadow strewn floor of the nearly empty house, biding his time by singing softly or reading or figuring square roots in his head. Soon the van would arrive to transport the family's belongings to the airport and from there to Japan, California, Egypt or somewhere _different_. He never groused or whined; the promise of a new book kept his restlessness firmly in check.

Once they were on the plane to wherever, his mother would pull the promised tome from her bag and present it to him with great reverence, like the long coveted prize it was.

House loved the anticipation of traveling to parts unknown, especially Egypt. The idea of walking in the land of pharaohs, being surrounded by the grandeur and majesty of the pyramids nearly made him weep...

...just like now. The almost unbearable ache in his gut reminds him something special is on its way, _someone_ special. _Bill_.

So he waits, seated on the cot, his suitcase by his side, the curved handle of the cane with the flames is a comfortable fit inside his right palm. His jeans and shirt have been freshly washed. He likes the clean smell of detergent and fabric softener, the delicious warmth of clothes straight from the dryer. He is that young boy again, tapping his foot, rolling equations though his brain until it is time.

It is time.

He hitches forward, his chest aches, his gut clenches, the blood pounds against his temples and inside his neck. Swallowing hard, he strains to hear the voices just beyond the door.

"_Get out_." It is a man's voice. _Bill? _ It is gruff, intolerant, impatient.

The woman, Ms. L, is speaking now, giving the man a few pointers and instructions on the care and feeding of Gregory House.

But the guy doesn't want to know.

"_Get OUT!"_

House's mouth goes dry as he hears the apartment door thump closed. He feels suddenly logy, ineffectual, despite the weighty sense of expectation hanging over him like a giant sack of grain. He blinks at the door. Waiting.

Someone is coming. _BILL?_ Heavy footfalls grow louder and more purposeful as they draw nearer.

They stop.

House clenches the head of his cane in a deathgrip. His breathing slows, his heart is a compact little fist inside him, pumping...pumping...

Despite his lethargy, his eyes grow wide. He takes one...breath...two...breaths...

The doorknob turns.


	33. All Together Now

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88** for all her encouragement and help.

**-33-**

"All Together Now"

Let's backtrack a bit...

Wilson arrives, looking haggard and wrung dry. He mutters apologies and is offered an anxious but relieved smile from Allison, curious looks from the cops, a terse nod from Cuddy and a cool once over from Faulkner.

The crowd in front of the building has multiplied to five times its original size. Reinforcements have been dispatched. Police barricades have been placed on either side of the entranceway. An ambulance has taken up residence behind the tabloid's van. Peter Emery from _The Ledger_ wields his microphone like a saber and attempts to coax a few quotes from the group. He is royally snubbed by them but has better luck with the crowd. Those folks know all about the Disappearing Doc.

The photographer continues to _click, click, whir_ away.

The crew files into the building, piles into the elevator, for the first time united by their curiosity and heated anticipation. The silence is pervasive. Not even Emery makes an attempt at conversation. But inside each head thoughts click and whir like the photographer's Nikon.

When they reach the door to apartment B-5, their unity breaks apart like an ice floe drifting out of a deep freeze. Officer Bocelli makes the first move, reaching to press the buzzer, but Cuddy stops him with a pound of her fist against the wall and a loud, decisive _No! _Dr. Faulkner _must_ be allowed to enter first, to evaluate Dr. House's state of mind and suggest how best to proceed.

Wilson balks, arguing the only way to proceed is to get House out of there. This earns him a venomous scowl from Cuddy, a patient, condescending smile from Faulkner, and a pat on the arm from Allison.

The officers retire to the other end of the corridor for a consult as the group lapses into silence again. The only sounds are the officers quiet murmurs and the photographer digging through his camera bag for another roll of film.

Bocelli returns to the group while his partner, Officer Benton, phones in the plan to the station. They have decided that Dr. Faulkner will be permitted to enter the apartment alone.

"Just one thing." he says, "What's with the sword?"

Faulkner raises a brow and gives the officer a thin smile. "It's an antique I keep in my office for decorative purposes. The first time Dr. House saw it, he was taken by its beauty. But the deeper he sank into his delusions, the stronger his obsession for it became." He taps the sheathed blade against his palm. "It has become a fixture in our sessions. He responds better to me when he can see it."

"Yeah, sure. Fifteen minutes," Bocelli tells him, "Then we're coming in."

Faulkner lowers his head, looks at him with those eyes. "An hour."

Bocelli's frown deepens. "Why an hour? That's a helluva long t-"

"We're dealing with a delusional, troubled soul," Faulkner says with infinite patience. "I must tread carefully; I must go slow."

"This is just...wrong," Wilson lifts his arms, then slaps them against his sides in frustration.

"James." Cuddy warns in her best administrative tone.

Not one of them notices Allison leaning against the wall, eyes distant and empty yet full of light.

"Alright. One hour." Bocelli jabs a finger at Faulkner. "Go."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the woman opened the door he knew there would be trouble. He saw right away she wouldn't want to leave. Faulkner pauses to exhale sharply. She was like a mother bird protecting her young as she squawked out a protest. But it only took a few commanding words from his lips to set her straight. She caved easily, closing the apartment door gently behind her. _Strange, crazy cow_, he thinks, flicking a bead of sweat from his temple before turning the knob and pushing the bedroom door open.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Wilson seems so far away...at the end of a long tunnel, standing, waiting with the rest of them. There is a new addition to the group: a stout, wild haired woman. She is troubled, in tears. A black cloud hangs heavy over everyone, over the entire corridor; every few moments it rumbles a warning. Silver veins of light shiver through it like express trains bound for nowhere.

Allison sighs, then gasps. Dead Kid stands before her, as gaunt and grey as he was on the Ferris wheel.

"We have to go in there," he says.

"They won't let me."

"Come with me." He takes her hand. His fingers are ice...

"No, they'll think I've died or something." She winces, runs her tongue across her paper dry lips.

"You have no _choice._ You need to see..."

So sad, so young. Pale freckles dot the bridge of his nose; he looks like a little boy. His eyes are green-gold pools, so cool and inviting. It would be lovely to swim inside them to see what they see, to know without a doubt what is real and true.

"Come with me," he pleads, touching her cheek with great tenderness. "You need to see...to tell them."

Her eyelids flutter as she slides down the wall. She feels a great sense of comfort, of peace as her mind drifts. And then she is being tugged, lifted; she is floating. The light is a little too bright and for a moment, she thinks she might lose her way. But Dead Kid is with her, no longer grey and gaunt. He is warm, rosy cheeked and alive. Like a child leading his mother off to the toy store he grips her hand tightly and pulls her in the direction of the bemused looking cops, the sobbing old lady, the fretful Dr. Wilson, the restless Dr. Cuddy, the reporter scribbling in his notebook, the photographer making a call. They drift past them, _through _them to melt through the door...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg's mouth falls open. A small sound emerges from the back of his throat, like a tiny bird is in there somewhere, struggling to be set free.

This is good, the reaction is wonderful. Faulkner chuckles, reveling in the hold he continues to have on this man, this genius, this seemingly impenetrable wall. He pushes the door closed with his foot and swaggers forward, closing the gap between them.

"Hello, Greg," Faulkner stands over him, passing the sheathed sword back and forth between his hands. The rhinestones glitter against the velvet like moonlit stars.

Slow, quick, slow, quick, Greg's eyes follow the motion. Already he is entranced.

"Pretty?" Faulkner coos.

"Unh."

"Why did you run, Greg?"

His mouth moves, fingers worry around the head of his cane. One knee twitches. "I'm sorry."

"Why. Did. You. Run?"

The click in his throat is like the sharp snap of twigs under a heavy boot. "I'm sorry."

"I'm disappointed in you."

_A solid right to the jaw... _

Greg head drops as if he's been cold cocked.

"Look at me."

Slowly he raises his head. Tears shimmer in his eyes. "The radio's broken."

"What?" Impatience joins forces with irritation to zap Faulkner in the gut.

"I did it."

There is no time for this, Faulkner decides, wrenching the sword from its sheath. He twists it and turns it, allowing the light to play on its blade. Greg's eyes sparkle and widen, the presence of the jewel encrusted sword is intoxicating.

"The time has come, as promised...a long time ago." Faulkner croons to the emeralds that wink in concurrence. For a moment he almost forgets Greg, so caught up is he in his own self congratulatory musings. But his patient's sharp intake of breath brings him back. Faulkner sets his gaze on the man responsible for the death of sister and Johnny's fugitive status. So much heartache within the healing. What is healing without compassion? A foul taste lingers, a rancid odor embeds itself into everything Gregory House puts his hands on, everything he does. The world will be a better place...soon.

Their gazes touch and abruptly, Greg returns. He blinks, shakes his head, winces as he rubs his brow. Somehow he has managed to throw off the fog. Scowling, he mumbles some angry, incoherent babble as he struggles to his feet.

"Sit."

"Sorry." The cane wobbles beneath his hand as he takes one lurching step forward. "Gotta go."

Faulkner presses a palm against Greg's chest. "I don't want you to hurt yourself," he says gently.

With a rough laugh, Greg shrugs by him and reaches the door. He grasps the knob, turns it sharply.

"Greg..."

Bowing his head, Greg stands frozen in place and heaves a weary sigh. "What?" he asks.

"Lancelot," Faulkner whispers.

The cane drops from Greg's hand, bouncing off the door before landing by his feet. Limp as a rag doll, Greg staggers sideways. He slams shoulder first into the wall before sliding, down, down, ending up flat on his back on the carpet.

Circling Greg's supine form, Faulkner pauses only to _whap_ the sword against his shoulder. "You never listen, you stubborn, self serving bastard. Think you're almighty, that you can rail against me, fight the good fight. Idiot." He draws back his foot and lets the shoe's shiny toe lay into Greg's ribs. A sharp _whuff _ and a soft moan escape Greg; his hands flail ineffectually at the air.

"Open your eyes."

Greg winces, swallows hard, then does as he is told.

"Get up." Faulkner bends down, grabs Greg's arm and gives a pull hard enough to bring him to a sitting position. Greg weaves up and back, like an inebriated Skid Row bum as Faulkner pushes the cane into his hand. "Go sit on the bed."

After a couple of false starts, Greg manages to shakily push himself to his feet. Faulkner observes coolly, checks his watch and decides this nonsense has gone on long enough.

_Finish it up. Quick and easy._

Greg lumbers toward the bed, looking it over dazedly before gradually listing to one side. Like a sailor on a three day pass, he staggers in the opposite direction, then leans hard on his cane. It is a valiant attempt to remain upright but ineffectual. He begins to fall forward. But Faulkner is there, grabbing a handful of Greg's jacket and pulling back..._hard._

"Focus on what you're supposed to do," He tugs the fabric in rhythm with his words, then releases Greg with a sharp shove, which sends him stumbling forward. He lands hard against the bed's steel frame, groaning as he eases himself down onto the mattress.

"Good." Faulkner places a hand against Greg's brow. "Deep now, Greg. You're going deeper. Deeper. That's right. Remember your special place?"

His response is a twitch of his head and a grimace.

"Let's go there again. That impossibly soft bed, so warm, so comfortable. It's lovely, just like you remember."

A sigh and a contented mumble escape Greg. The stress lines on his brow soften. His head rolls against his shoulders as he closes his eyes.

"No, no, no, keep your eyes open. You need to see this."

He blinks, then squints, then blinks again.

"Look outside your window."

Greg turns his head toward the wall. After a long moment, his mouth curls into a soft smile.

"See the train?"

"Uh...yeah..."

"We're going to take a little trip, go for one last ride."

"Mine...?" Greg mutters.

"Yes." Faulkner holds the jewel encrusted sword to the light, making the blade dance and dip and shine. "It's going to be yours soon. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Wonderful," Greg murmurs, letting his eyes close again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson's hand recoils from the unexpected coldness of her skin. He holds his breath, expecting the worst as his fingers trace the carotid artery. But the pulse is steady and strong. She is alive. Her eyes twitch under her pale lids, as though confirming she is still part of the living.

Emery has his microphone out. The photographer's Nikon is a whirring beast.

"Get...away." The menace in Wilson's tone sends journalist and photographer back to their place behind the cops.

"What's with her?" Cuddy is here now, looking down, hands on her hips.

Wilson frowns, taking in her anger, impatience, intolerance, _whatever_. "She's fine," he says, smoothing Allison's hair. "I've got it covered."

"Obviously, she's not fine. The police want to know if you need the EMT's to take her to the hospital."

"No, believe me, she'll be okay," he tells her. "Her breathing is slow but steady, pulse is strong."

"Then why is she-?"

"She's got the sight." Lois moves beside Cuddy. The older woman's face is blotchy, her cheeks tear streaked, her eyes puffy from crying. Her fingers flutter against each other like bird wings. "The colors of her aura are ultraviolet...pink...lilac. Her powers of sight are strong."

"What's your name?" Cuddy asks.

"Lois."

"Lois," Cuddy's gifts her with a sour grin. "I appreciate your input but it's nonsense. You know it and so do-"

"The man...the therapist. His aura...red on a black background...rage...tinged with brown...egoism. He is after something...he is determined..." She raises her eyes to meet Cuddy's, then Wilson's. "...dangerous and powerful."

"Maybe you should go outside, Lois," Cuddy grips the woman's shoulder. "Get some air."

Allison moans, then shudders, her head thrashes from side to side.

"Allison?" Wilson grips her arm, gives it a small shake.

"No...don't." Shrugging out of Cuddy's grasp, Lois kneels beside Wilson and places her hand over his. "Leave her."

"Is she dreaming?" he asks.

Lois's eyes are dark, troubled, shimmering with a fresh allotment of tears. Her whisper is like the susurration of frigid wind through brittle leaves. "She's with him."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dreaming is one thing. This out of body nightmare is something else. She is freezing and feels oddly naked without her armor of skin, muscle and bone to hide behind.

But Dead Kid was right. She needs to be here, to bare witness to the truth.

They move through the apartment, float through furniture and walls. Her anxiety intensifies, her heart should be hammering a solid tattoo against her ribs; her breath should be coarse and rasping in her chest. She feels none of it. She left all that back out in the corridor with the blonde husk propped up against the wall.

They float into the back bedroom, where the scene is as extraordinarily alien as her spectral state. House is seated on the bed, his eyes are blank, his mouth moves like he is attempting to articulate his fears about this sad, strange state of affairs. His hands lie in his lap like two useless appendages. He seems gaunt, powerless and totally entranced by Faulkner.

In Faulkner's hand is the unsheathed sword, the same type of sword Allison recalls seeing in Reichenbach Falls. House puts out a hand to touch it but Faulkner holds it just out of reach.

"Not yet," Faulkner says. "Go through the door, into the last car."

House shakes his head and frowns. "Afraid."

"Nothing to be scared of, Greg. This is why you're here. Everything you've ever done has led you to this point."

The room shifts and morphs into the train car from her dreams. The gilt edge window frames and red velvet walls breathe their welcome as the train chug-a-chugs smoothly along.

"Welcome back, Allison." Dead Kid says. He is arm in arm with Alexandra, whose wide-eyed look of apprehension mirrors her own. "It's time to do what you do best."

"I can't. I don't know how. This is too...strange."

"You've been here before."

"That was a dream. This is..." She glances around to take it all in...again. "...this is too real."

Fog meanders around the door between the cars. The billowy whiteness extends toward her, reaching, cajoling, urging her to move forward into its midst. She can just about see the door roll open.

"I...can't do this," she says slowly as cloudlike tendrils caress her arms and face.

"You don't have a choice Allison," Dead Kid says, while Alex strokes her hair. Alex smells like bubble gum and herbal shampoo.

House appears like an apparition floating through the fog. For the first time she is frightened of him, of what he has become. He is no longer her knight. No, he is too far gone for that. His cheeks are gaunt, dark hollows frame those ice blue eyes, which are devoid of light and life, yet filled with misgivings. This situation is not his fault. She senses his actions might have been the impetus for it. But still...

It is as if he has taken a drive, tooling down a side road before realizing that...hey, this is the wrong way. The route is bad, dark and treacherous and he would love to turn back, but that simply is not an option because...

...the car has no brakes. It rattles and whines, roaring forward of its own accord, careening through barriers, crashing through glass and brick and wood before tumbling over a rocky cliff to meet a fiery demise.

Somewhere out in that faraway corridor, Allison shudders.

House makes his way to the nearest seat, where he stops, sways, leans hard on his cane and waits. Through the fog something sparks and glitters. Like a magician arriving for a long anticipated appearance, Dr. Faulkner saunters near. He gives a charming smile as he whips the shining sword around and around, cutting through the murk.

He points the blade at House. "Sit."

House falls back into the seat.

"Good, Greg." Faulkner's smile broadens. It is so warm, filled with compassion and love for his charge.

"Focus, Allison," Dead Kid hisses in her ear. "He's a snake. He'll turn you into a sniveling, groveling wreck if you're not careful."

With a trembling hand and a hitch of breath, House reaches one hand out.

"Ah, yes. So anxious, aren't you?" Faulkner says, waving the sword in a wide arc over his head.

"Please...," House's jaw clenches as his reaching hand balls into a fist. He looks weak, tormented and tired. Begging doesn't suit him.

"Just...leave here." Allison says in his ear. "You don't need this. They're waiting for you outside. The police...Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Wilson...

Some small glimmer of life sparks in his eyes.

"You'll be safe there-"

Slowly, almost reluctantly, House turns his head, letting his gaze sweep the car. The chugging motion stops. They are in the bedroom again, with its threadbare dresser, the cushy pillows propped up against the windowsill...

He rises to his feet.

"Don't even try it." Faulkner thrusts the sword in his face and moves it gently from side to side. "You're far away now. Miles and miles away. You're lost."

Red and gold, silver and grey. Those train car colors drip from the ceiling, bleeding over everything again. It's baa-aack, huffing its arrival, chugging its impatience. Now it is rolling, rolling, rolling...taking House farther and farther away.

A low hissy whistle emanates from House's throat, like the noise of a balloon rapidly deflating. He swallows against it and seats himself again. His head moves every which way; confusion dances in those eyes.

"You've lost him, Allison," Dead Kid tells her sadly as Alexandra softly weeps.

"Now, Greg...it's time." A glimmer of pride shines in Faulkner's eyes...then dims. "It took us much longer than it should have to get here. That's your fault."

A shadow passes over House's face. Again he has disappointed and must now face the consequences. He bows his head, rubs his thigh.

"Come with me." Allison kneels by his side. "Don't...don't let him do this."

"But it's okay. You've earned your prize." Faulkner holds out the sword with both hands. "Take it."

"You don't want that." Allison shakes her head grimly. "It's bad news, Greg. It's every horrible thing you can think of, toxins in the bloodstream, kidney failure, good cells morphing into malignancies."

For one brief moment, the clouds part, letting in the sun. House straightens in his seat, juts out his chin. He seems lucid, angry, full of fight. "Keep it," he says before sputtering out a laugh.

Narrowing his eyes, Faulkner hunkers down, continuing to hold out the offering. "You know, Greg, a cursed man has no right to laugh."

Darkness descends; a midwinter pall chills the train car and causes Dead Kid to groan and Alexandra to whine.

"Tell him again," Allison's word spill over each other. "Tell him to keep it and then...get out of here. Get out!"

"Think of us when you hurt..."

_No._House's mouth falls open as the sword is placed in his hands.

"...when the pain gets so bad..."

Disbelief joins forces with awe to claim him. His fingers journey over the shimmering blade, the scarlet jewels, the artfully crafted hilt.

"...you wish death..."

Allison whips around, looks to Dead Kid for help. But he is nearly gone. His skin clings to his blackened bones like ruined banners fluttering in a fetid breeze. The small pile of ash at his side is all that is left of Alex.

"...would just..."

Turning, sorrowfully, reluctantly, _hopelessly_ back to Greg, she already knows what she will see...

...the sword in his right hand, the blade held in a steady, vertical line over his left wrist.

_Don't...please...don't!_

...take you."

The sword plunges deep, much too deep as the train whistle shrieks. The red spray dots Faulkner's dress shirt, his cheeks, his brow. He is a marked man, his victim's blood is the accuser. But who would believe it? Who would...

Gasping, searching, clamoring for breath, she jerks upright, not recognizing the corridor at first. The memory returns in a crashing, volatile wave of hurt and fear. A high pitched keening assaults her ears. _Make it stop_, she moans, then realizes it emanates from the deepest part of herself.

Hands are on her shoulder, attempting to steady her as she fights them off and struggles to her feet. Wide brown eyes in a boyishly handsome face scrutinize her. His lips move in a garble of words she doesn't care to hear. _You don't understand, _she wants to scream. _ You have to move, move, move out of my goddamn way! _But the words stick in her throat.

"Allison!"

She half runs, half staggers toward the door. All around her is a clamor, an uproar.

..._be okay...calm down...bad dream?...water...call the paramed--_

"No!" She grasps Bocelli's arm. "You have to go in there...now!"

The cop glowers, directing his gaze toward the hand that is twisting his shirtsleeve. "Big night last night, lady? Have a little too much rum and Coca Cola?" He turns to his partner, shares a giggle.

"You don't understand." Allison says. "You are wasting time. Every minute that goes by..."

"Let me take you downstairs, Allison." Cuddy's voice is like a tall cool drink, soothing, bracing; Allison would love to sip from it, escape this horror and return to her family. They have packing to do and she needs to be there to help...

But the mockery and triumph burning in Dr, Cuddy's eyes give Allison back her resolve. Cuddy needs to be told, to be warned about the trail of heartache her 'friend' has left in his wake. His latest victim is just a few feet away.

Wilson stands behind Cuddy, throwing Allison a sorrowful look. Maybe she has lost him; the notion saddens her greatly. Wilson has been her sole ally through all of this. Regardless, the only thing she can do is push forward, even if she has to do it alone.

"No, thank you." she says to Cuddy, releasing the officer's sleeve. She pulls back the reins, forces herself to regain her calm. Over in the corner stands the skeleton of Dead Kid. The bones of his right arm lie on the floor beside him. His head hangs low off a neck that is gradually deteriorating. It won't be long before he goes the same way as Alexandra. _Dust to dust_.

Allison averts her eyes, and lets her words flow slowly and distinctly. "I'm going to tell you what is going on behind that door. If you choose not to believe me, I can't do anything about it." Her gaze flicks toward Wilson. "Your friend and colleague, Dr. House has just slit his left wrist with the sword given to him by Dr. Faulkner. It is a deep cut, bad enough so that the bone is visible." Her sigh is loud in the sudden quiet. "Dr. Faulkner will tell you he was overpowered, that Dr. House wrenched the sword from him and used it on himself in a matter of seconds. Dr. Faulkner will also tell you he was too shocked, too emotionally distressed to call for help..." She meets Cuddy's eyes. "...until it was too late."

"Stop this." Cuddy checks her watch. "Dr. Faulkner is in session with House for another twenty minutes."

"In twenty minutes Dr. House will be dead." Allison turns toward Bocelli, who has lost the smirk and is now saucer-eyed.

"Open the door." Wilson urges Lois forward. She fishes her key from her pocket and takes a step forward but stops as Cuddy bars the door.

"Let them finish in there," Cuddy says. "There's no truth to what this woman is telling you."

Wilson snatches the key from Lois's shaky hand and thrusts it in Cuddy's face. "Get out of the way."

"How could you believe such idiocy." She gesticulates wildly at Allison. "She is obviously demented-"

"Move out of the way, ma'am." Bocelli gestures at Wilson to unlock the door.

"No," Cuddy sobs. "You can't. You'll hurt him."

Allison wonders if she means Faulkner or Dr. House. But the point is moot, since Cuddy has allowed herself to be shunted off to one side. She covers her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving with the force of her weeping. Wilson unlocks the door then moves aside to allow Bocelli access.

"Stay here," Bocelli instructs the group as he shoves the door open. He draws his pistol and his partner follows suit. Cautiously they make their way inside apartment B-5.


	34. Endgame

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing. The **final **chapter will be posted tomorrow, so please stay tuned!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her encouragement and help.

**-34-**

Endgame

Wilson is propelled by frustration, worry and fear. The unholy trio have banded together to lift him up by his britches and shove him inside the apartment. There are guns in here. Guns and knives and villainy, which would normally send him racing in the opposite direction. But House is here too, somewhere. He is undoubtedly hurt, definitely in a bad way. These thoughts force Wilson to hotfoot it through the maze of rooms, not running but not strolling either.

"What are you doing?"

He smells Cuddy before he sees her. Her scent is musk and roses and a sour stench of fear. Whipping around he hisses, "Like you care."

Wounded, she rears back then takes two steps forward before hurrying around corners, tramping through the dining room and kitchen.

He catches up, places a gentle hand on her arm, which causes her to stop and clutch her stomach, her mouth forming a surprised 'o'. It is as if something inside her has broken; little pieces of herself crack like biscuits in broth, disintegrating into nothingness.

Neither of them will be the same when all this is history.

Down the corridor, just up ahead, a white door is ajar. There is the squawk of a police radio, an underlying murmur of calm conversation. The words are muffled but the tone is light. A question...then an answer...over, and over again. It sounds like a needle stuck in a record groove.

"They're talking to Bill," Cuddy's tone is flat, dead.

Wilson's entrails twist into sailor's knots. Nausea grips him. Throwing up sounds like a grand idea. But not now. Please, not now.

He doesn't hear House. _Why?_ It should be House's voice laying down the rules, spouting epithets, reading the riot act.

_Squawk._

The scene is too quiet, like the sound of blood flowing from a wound.

_Blood flowing from a wound..._

"House," Wilson jolts from his stupor. He is propelled again, in flight. He passes through the door and is surrounded by police blues, white walls, and red, red everywhere, not a drop to spare.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lois stands in front of the apartment door like a sentry guarding the Crown Jewels. Tucking her hand in her trouser pocket, she wraps her fingers around the key to that door and glares at Peter Emery. Allison stands beside her, crossing her arms; an ally on the field of battle.

"Why the hell are you being so obstinate?" Peter Emery whines, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain by letting me in there." His photographer leans against the wall behind him, peeling the wrapper off a stick of Dentyne.

"There is nothing to be gained by being a leech. You are a maggot feeding off other people's hardships." Lois raises her chin like a proud mama lion.

"Isn't that what you do? You and your _cult?_" He spits out the last word like it is a bitter toxin.

"You need to leave, Mr. Emery," Allison says over the faint _ding_ of the elevator at the other end of the corridor. "The paramedics are here. They have _important_ work to do."

"And, of course, you saw that in your crystal ball too."

"Pete," the photographer cocks his head. "come on. We got what we need."

"Just wait'll you ladies see what I dig up about you," Emery crows. "Your ears are gonna burn, your phones are never gonna stop ringing."

Three paramedics race down the hallway toward them, hauling first aid gear and pushing a gurney.

"There's such a thing as slander, Mr. Emery." Allison says, moving to one side as Lois pushes open the apartment door, allowing the EMT's access. "Unlike you, we have the truth on our side."

"Yeah, well, there's always a dark side to the truth, isn't there?" Emery tosses them a smirk and a wink before swaggering down the hall. His photographer heaves an apologetic shrug before joining his colleague, seeming somewhat relieved to be making his escape.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson trades place with Officer Benton, and kneels on the floor beside House. The officer has done an admirable job with his limited resources, covering House with a blanket to ward off shock, wrapping the ruined wrist in a now blood soaked towel, while putting pressure on the area just above the wound.

Cuddy kneels opposite Wilson, taking House's good hand in hers. Her murmurs of comfort dance in an uneven rhythm with House's incessant babble.

Doctor mode takes over and Wilson is checking eyes, pulse, respiration. House is conscious, his eyes are half open but he is off in the ether, now mumbling something about a train and the sword, being lost and being a good boy.

"Good boy," calls a voice from the other end of the room.

Wilson's head whips around as the paramedics burst into the room. Pushing himself to his feet, Wilson reels backward and ends up beside Bocelli. The officer is standing over Faulkner, who is seated in a wooden chair that squeaks a complaint each time he moves. He seems restless, antsy. He taps his feet to some crazy inner beat, fingers jump and twitch against his knees and thighs, while the cop mutters into his radio. Faulkner's shirt and tie, chin and cheeks are spattered with blood. But it is his eyes that are truly terrifying. Something about his eyes...makes the skin on the back of Wilson's neck crawl.

"Good boy. Greg is such a good boy." Faulkner turns his head slow and easy, like an alien from a b-movie. His gaze finds Cuddy, who stands sullen and alone by the dresser. At her feet are shards of plastic, a bent antenna, red and white strands of wire: it is a shattered transistor radio. Faulkner throws her a lopsided grin._Charming. _ Specks of blood dot his lower lip.

It happens then. Anger swims with weariness and slowly abating fear, causing Wilson's inhibitions to fly. "What did you do to him?" he asks, moving as close to Faulkner as he dares.

"He's a good boy," Faulkner tilts his head back and crows like a proud parent. "don't you think?"

"What...did you do?"

Faulkner hitches a thumb at Cuddy. "Lisa will tell you he's a good boy."

"Good boy," House groans from the gurney.

Bocelli leans over, whispers into Wilson's ear. "As soon as the paramedics get Doctor House in the ambulance, we're going to bring Faulkner with us to the station. See if we can't get the real story out of him."

"Oooh, secrets." Faulkner wags a finger at them. "So many secrets. I have them, Lisa has them. All God's chillun have 'em tucked away in their meek little minds. So easy to shape a mind, don't you know." Those eyes go cold. "People are so easily led."

With a sharp exhale, Cuddy approaches Faulkner. She touches him on the shoulder, which gets her a companionable smile. "You were good, you had me fooled. I'm sure whatever you did to me, you did to Dr. House many times over. You wanted to hurt him for some reason. There is a reason, isn't there...Bill?"

His smile morphs into a smirk, his eyes crinkling with wicked glee. "You did good, Lisa." He pats the hand that rests on his shoulder. "Such a helpful girl."

"Good...boy..." House's voice is hoarse, frightened. It rises and falls as the paramedics lift the gurney and begin to move it out the door.

"Come on, Lisa." Wilson takes her arm and gently guides her away from the jabbering, blood dappled therapist. On the floor, partially obscured in a towel is a sword. Scarlet coats the edge of its blade as if it had been dipped in blood.

_House's blood._

Wilson swallows against the returning nausea. Cuddy's arm is through his now as they follow the procession. The older lady, Lois, is here, traipsing behind them. But Allison is gone. Maybe she wanted to be rid of the insanity, return to her family as quickly as possible. Maybe he'll touch base with her some other time. But for now...

...he situates himself beside the gurney as it is pushed to a stop just outside the elevator.

"House." Wilson's arm lights on his shoulder, which causes House's glassy eyed stare to swim into focus and land on him. A corner of his mouth jerks up in weak acknowledgement.

"Wilson," he rasps, " 's about fuckin' time..."


	35. Aftermath

**A/N: **This is it, friends...the story she is done. Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and hopefully enjoying. It was indeed a labor of love.

If you're interested, the 'snapping' deprogramming method mentioned in this chapter was developed by Ted Patrick, a man who claims to have deprogrammed over two thousand cult members. Wikipedia can tell you more. You can also Google 'Ted Patrick' for a wealth of information.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

**Thanks: **to **Betz88 **for her encouragement and help. My gratitude also goes to **NaiveEve **who helped with the first chapters of this story.

**-35-**

"Aftermath"

Allison dreams of a service station/convenience store out in the middle of nowhere. Purple sky, setting sun. It is always twilight here. Not surprisingly, there is not much business, a fact which doesn't seem to disturb its proprietor. Settled comfortably in a wooden chair under a tattered orange awning, he pulls his Gravedigger cap lower over his eyes. A cane leans into the shadows against the wall behind him. His right foot rests on a large brick.

He is her knight, the Disappearing Doc...yet he is not.

She awakens slowly, leisurely, to the hum of the plane's engines. Joe sits beside her. Headphones on, he is immersed in the in-flight movie, something about cops and lawyers. Across the aisle the girls chatter away.

They are going home.

It feels good to put distance between herself and New York. And, although she regrets not staying long enough to say farewell to Dr. House, it is probably for the best. She knew he would be okay, knew he would live to tell the tale...or keep most of it to himself. Maybe one day she will call him. Touch base, as they say. Closing her eyes again, she imagines the conversation being rife with clipped, terse sentences and lots of dead air.

Maybe some things are better left as they are.

Are they? She has a feeling about Dr. Faulkner. A bad feeling. The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew. But she doesn't feel inclined to warn him.

Is that bad? Is she a bad person?

Joe pats her hand, his eyes still on the movie. A burly man with a gold chain around his sweaty neck just took one in the gut...

...as Dead Kid and Alexandra drift arm and arm through the cabin, like a couple strolling through the park. They pause before her to bow low, then disappear.

She sighs contentedly, leaning her head against Joe's shoulder. _No_, she thinks happily, she is not a bad person at all.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Six months later:

_The dream is always the same. _

First he needed to come to terms with the physical, the hand. Nerve damage is the reason for the post-it note size patch of numbness in the center of his palm. It may eventually shrink and disappear. The peripheral nerves are doing their job; regeneration is progressing. So...no problem.

_It's good news, old man, pass the pint. _

The physical rehab is nothing, really. Piece of apple pie washed down with a strawberry shake. Kid stuff.

Maybe Faulkner did him a service by convincing him to carve up his wrist. Nothing politically correct about _that_ thought but House laughs anyway. He knew all along there were perks and benefits to being damaged. Since he returned to work, Cuddy lets him out of clinic duty whenever he asks. And he asks every day. The reason for her compliance is simple. She _knows._

She was given a glimpse of the big picture, a little tickle of knowledge that nearly sent her over the edge.

The fact is, Lisa Cuddy and Gregory House are connected now in more ways than they ever were.

The emotional rehabilitation is a longer, more complex story, one he is not sure he will pass through unscathed. The memory of Faulkner Time: the weeks prior to his entry into the world of 'deprogramming' or 'exit counseling' are a blur. Wilson has been reluctant to spill the details about them, fearful too many facts will rouse the demons from their pit.

But that's okay. House feels good, scrubbed clean, glowing like a newly minted coin. Eddie Walker, the 'exit counselor' recommended by Dr. Gurand, really did a number on his head, pushing him harder and harder through the days and weeks until...he 'snapped'. It was a moment. Yeah...it was something else. He 'snapped' and the truth hit him with a one-two punch, tearing him away from Faulkner's once iron clad hold once and for all. Eddie Walker had given House back his free will, his goddamn free will that nobody, _no how _will ever take from him again.

Still...there are bad memories tucked away in his gray matter, like parts and pieces of a body in the trunk of a car. They are impish devils assaulting him at odd times, during a diagnostic, when he is mounting his Honda or placing a bet on a ten to one shot at the track. Sometimes he flashes on a train, other times the moon or a blue reclining chair. Someday he will excavate all the pieces and stitch them up like a Frankenstein's monster, to give them form and shape...and meaning.

Now he sits, propping his back against the brick wall of the stairwell, enjoying the twilight. It fits his pensive mood. The clouds make their last stand of the day, wearing their golds and purples like medals before fading into the night sky. His mouth lifts into a small satisfied smile, eyes going wide as he takes it all in.

The roof of Princeton-Plainsboro has become his sanctuary. It doesn't matter that his leg protests as he struggles up those stairs. The feeling of freedom he gleans from the early evening breeze and that open sky is worth the pain. More than his leather sofa at home, more than late nights at the piano, he enjoys sitting _here_. Here he can savor the ritual, placing three Vicodin on his tongues, swallowing them dry, removing the folded newspaper from the back pocket of his jeans while his gaze traverses the heavens.

_House but not House owns a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Boondocksville. Grassy plains, dirt roads. His home sweet home is the dusty, book strewn room above the tiny store where he sells Grape Ne-hi and beef jerky sticks._

His deprogramming appointments will continue for another month at least. Like a car, the improvements must be followed up on, maintained. Another ritual.

At first he was driven to Eddie's office every afternoon. Now it is every other day. Next week, if he is a very good boy, the appointments will be cut to twice weekly.

Wilson used to drive him (House wasn't trusted to make the trip himself in case he became...distracted or disoriented). But one day, without explanation, Cuddy took Wilson's place behind the wheel. The two were silent en route to the appointment and said very little on the return trip. When Cuddy took a detour to House's apartment, their silence took on a whole new texture. Rough, needy, expectant...

They took a purposeful path to the bedroom. After stripping off their clothes with languorous care, they lay atop the comforter, staring at the ceiling before finally touching one another. Faulkner's hold on both of them had dissipated, but that connection they had, that irksome, disturbing _knowledge_ never would. Perhaps if they distilled it, utilized it for something positive, it would serve a purpose.

The sex was a soothing balm, like warm salve massaged onto an open wound. They held each other for a little while after, breathing against each other's shoulders, waiting for their heartbeats to slow. After showering together, they dressed and went back to work.

Nobody knew. Nobody would ever know. Not even Wilson. At work House would continue to let the barbs would fly, keep the jokes about cleavage, the heels, the walk, the ass, ebbing and flowing from day to day. But the sex...it was just something that happened and would most likely keep happening in the same calm, methodical way. It was part of the routine now, one more step forward in the in the healing process.

_A very good boy..._

A shard of memory cuts him like the slip of a penknife against his thumb. House shudders at the sudden sharp chill in the air and slaps the newspaper flat against the gritty black floor of the rooftop.

_The Thunderbird rolls up and parks in its usual spot round back. Right on time. She pours out of the driver's side door, long legs, her dark hair flowing down her back, over her breasts. She is like some harlot from a film noir. Her lips are scarlet, like fresh roses, like arterial blood. He can taste her already. Lisa. He quirks a grin, clicks his tongue. Without a word, he grabs his cane and leads her to his room._

By now, House has read _The Ledger _article so many times, he could probably recite it in his sleep. But the physical act of reading, of letting the words sink into his brain is another ritual. At some point he will have to let it go, to force these memories to fade, the same way _he_ almost did.

But not yet...

Pressing his lips together, he turns the page and begins to read.

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**The Disappearing Doc: Aftermath**

by

Peter Emery

Staff Reporter

Weeks have passed. The dust has settled. The case of The Disappearing Doc is history. But you know as well as I do, nothing ever just 'goes away'. There are layers to this tale as there are with any story. Peel them back and you might discover secret hidey holes you weren't supposed to find. But this is where resourcefulness leads you.

You, my loyal readers, deserve more than what the mainstream papers are telling you about what really happened to Dr. Gregory House. You deserve the truth. Not one interview with the players in this drama has surfaced. But I have met them all, talked to each one of them. Yes, William Faulkner too...before his number was called.

And that is where we begin our recap:

**Dr. William Faulkner. **After weeks of intense research into the reason behind the rhyme, I can now tell you that Faulkner calculated his initial meeting with Dr. House with meticulous care, dangling the promise of drug free pain reduction over the desperate doc's head (House suffers from chronic leg pain because of an infarction in his thigh).

What Faulkner desired most was revenge. He attributed his sister Danielle's suicide to a callous betrayal of trust on Dr. House's part. During the course of treating her husband, Jack Moriarity, for an undisclosed ailment, House offhandedly told Danielle of her husband's indiscretion with another woman.

It was Jack Moriarity who stole into Princeton-Plainsboro hospital two weeks after his wife's death and pumped two bullets into Gregory House. Failing in his murderous quest, he escaped to Arizona, where he became involved with the now incarcerated serial killer, Curtis Weir. Faulkner took up Moriarity's battle, attempting to do House in by using more subtle methods: mind control and hypnosis.

As we know, it almost worked.

But fate played a hand, saving Dr. House from death's hand...again.

Dr. Faulkner was not so lucky.

I was there when it happened. I can tell you that tragedy strikes in slow motion before becoming a snow squall of confusion. I have stared death in the face and it has changed me, left an emptiness in my soul (read my detailed account of these moments, plus complete interviews with police and witnesses in next week's _Ledger). _

We were on the steps of the Princeton police station, following Faulkner, his lawyer and a group of officers and detectives inside for the deposition. Faulkner was to give his official rendering of his relationship with Dr. House and the events leading up to the doctor's attempted suicide.

He never made it.

As we stood on the steps, an officer moved to open the precinct's door. There was a loud _popping _sound, then another. I felt a strange whizzing heat by my temple, and then Faulkner fell, his blood and brain matter spraying the area, leaving residue on black shoes and crisp blue uniforms. Half his face was gone. An officer and detective flanking him were also mortally wounded.

The assailant, Dorie Ann Schumacher was an educator in the Trenton area and spurned lover of Dr. Faulkner. She is currently incarcerated in the New Jersey State Prison, serving three life sentences for the murder of Faulkner, Detective Irv Trisdale, and Officer Milos Gervais.

The chances of yours truly being granted an interview with Ms. Schumacher are looking good. More about that soon!

I remain here, fate's humble servant, left behind to tell this tale.

And Jack Moriarity is still at large...somewhere.

**Drs. James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy **are colleagues and stalwart friends of the Disappearing Doc. They put up the reward money when Dr. House ran away in an attempt to escape Faulkner's unshakable hold on his psyche. The two doctors were aided in their quest by a woman named **Allison****Dubois**, a self professed psychic, who claimed to be in touch with Dr. House via her dreams.

We don't believe in such claptrap here at _The Ledger. _It was luck and resourcefulness on Dr. Wilson's part that led him and the others to Dr. House. We take issue with the fact that Dr. Wilson gives Ms. Dubois a good deal of the credit for finding the Disappearing Doc. At the time Dr. Wilson was exhausted, an emotional wreck. Surely he would have been open to any port in the storm.

In her own way, Ms. Dubois was just as much of a Coney Island huckster as Dr. Faulkner. I talked to her. I know. She is self righteous and cunning. These people who play on the weaknesses of others for their own gain must be stopped. This is an issue we will explore in our special Sunday supplement "Are Psychics Psyching you out?"

And finally we come to **Lois Weatherly**, co-founder of The Church of the Rising Age, an organization we commonly refer to as a cult. I was the only reporter invited to stand behind the observation mirror as Ms. Weatherly told her tale to the police: how she found Dr. House in a 'bad state' on the steps of the New York Public Library, how she then brought him to the church, cared for him, attempted to help him regain his mental acuity. Only when the cult's brand of therapy failed, did she decide to notify the police of Dr. House's whereabouts.

Could the offer of reward money have had something to do with Lois's decision to produce the Disappearing Doc? After all, the church's co-founder, Stefan Perrault knew nothing of her plans.

We at _The Ledger _do not condone the acts of these self professed churches, and I, for one, am pleased that Lois was not issued the reward money. It was decided that her actions had not been in the best interest of her charge and that she held him against his will, no matter how emphatically she protested to the contrary.

According to Stefan Perrault, Lois left the church, and is headed for parts unknown.

I say, good riddance.

Currently, Dr. Gregory House is under the care of an exit counselor. From all reports he is responding well and has returned to his work and his colleagues

We wonder, though, how will this change him? Will he ever be the man he was? Will this traumatic experience haunt and plague him through the rest of his days? There is no way of knowing. But we will stand by, as always, to bring you any updates to this report.

For complete interviews and a photo gallery, please visit our website.

_As always, Your News Is Our News._

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The edges of the newspaper snap and rustle in the balmy breeze. The wind is picking up. The air smells damp and close; rain is on the way. House rolls up the newspaper and tucks it under his arm. Throwing the sky an accusatory glower, he grabs his cane and pushes himself to his feet.

"Pizza?"

_Shit._House taps the tip of his cane against the side of his sneaker. "You get off on standing in the half-light, observing a crippled man reading the newspaper?"

"It's what I live for." Wilson moves next to him, a cocky little smile on his face. Only lately has the haggard, stressed out look turned to one of mild contentment.

"How long?" House asks, moving toward the wall overlooking the hospital's entrance and guest parking area.

"What?"

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Oooh, I don't know...ten, fifteen minutes." Wilson taps the paper with his forefinger. "Strange thing is, you never turned the page once."

"Mmmph," House grunts, and leans one forearm on top of the wall. "Shouldn't you be on your merry way to hotel and hearth?"

"I don't know, House. It's much more fun hanging out here with you, waiting for the rain."

"You're bothering me."

"No, I'm not. You're glad I looked for you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

House shakes open the paper, separates the pages, then hands half of them to Wilson. "Here."

"What's this for?" he asks. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

"Just...take them."

"Okay." Wilson takes the pages. "Now what?"

"Do what I do." Holding his half of the newspaper in both hands, House rips it down the middle once, then again crosswise before letting it flutter off into the wind.

"Is that _The Ledger?_"

"Yeah."

"The latest issue?"

"No, it's the one from last month about Simon Cowell's affair with Britney Spears." House gives a rakish little chuckle. "That girl will go with anyone with a stylist..."

"I can't blame you for tearing up that rag. Peter Emery _is _a supercilious bastard. " Wilson raises his brows and frowns over the wall. "Still and all, it's littering."

"Ohhh. Like someone's gonna catch you. Just..."

"They could..."

"I should have known." House heaves a disgruntled sigh and holds out his hand. "Give."

"No, it's alright." Wilson rips the pages three ways, then tosses them up like confetti, letting the wind send them flying off to...wherever. "Happy now?"

"Yeah, I'm giddy with delight." House brushes by him and heads toward the door. Fat drops of rain land on his shoulder, the top of his head.

_Good boy..._

"Pizza?" Wilson calls again. The rain is falling in earnest now making Wilson look like a soggy Ken doll.

House backs into the push bar and opens stairwell door. "Vitos?"

"Sure."

"You're all wet. Don't you have to change your shirt, dry your hair and put that mousse shit in it?

"So I'll change at your place."

"Forget it." House begins to turn.

"House...wait." Wilson rushes over, shoes sploshing in the fresh new puddles. "We'll go. Now."

With a chuckle, House steps into the stairwell. "You'll get to the car and want to go change."

"No," Wilson maintains with a soggy shake of his head. "I won't."

"I'll bet you dinner you will."

Uncertainty flickers in Wilson's eyes but disappears just as quickly. "You're on."

Gripping the banister, House smiles to himself as he takes the first step down. He can't help but notice the despondent hunch of his friend's shoulders, the way his hand scrubs through that limp, rain soaked hair.

_There is no way you're paying tonight, old man..._

"God, I'm soaked!" Wilson's voice bounces off the walls. His shoes squish, squish, squish, announcing each sodden step.

House giggles so hard he needs to pause and steady himself against the railing. Wilson shoots him a glare. A drop of water drips from the tip of his nose to _plop_ against his shoe, which causes House to giggle even more. Now he is on a serious roll. Those giggles turn to chuckles, the chuckles become guffaws, the guffaws bloom into full out belly laughs. He stands on that third step a long time, shoulders shaking as he throws his head back, as the laughter takes him away.

_fin._


End file.
